


When She Failed

by TheRightPurpleElves



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Azeroth AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 70,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRightPurpleElves/pseuds/TheRightPurpleElves
Summary: Sylvanas Windrunner is exiled from Quel'Thalas and branded a traitor after the death knight Arthas Menethil attacks Silvermoon's leadership on her watch. On the run from Ranger-General Vereesa Windrunner, she becomes a bodyguard for hire- to one Jaina Proudmoore, whom she swears to protect from Arthas whatever it takes.





	1. In Which Sylvanas Falls From Grace

**Author's Note:**

> AN: thank you for clicking! This is an AU Azeroth fic, and will sooner or later be a Sylvaina AU fic (no Horde/Alliance, all races just muddle around peacefully because this way I can include all the favourites). I feel like a total fraud coming into the genre with so many awesome stories already out here, but I hope this will be read and I hope it can be enjoyed! Please let me know your thoughts if you feel like it.

  _Silvermoon City, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms_

 

  “I believe they’ve got to you, Windrunner. Hard as it is to believe that such a veteran would be frightened by a human, of all things.” Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider beams through the carriage window at the elves lining the streets of Quel’Thalas, one hand waving brightly; a sobbing young woman flings a flower at the cabin, and Sylvanas catches it purely by reflex, fingers snapping shut on the delicate stem. “Good catch! Pretty bloom.”

 

  Sunstrider takes the flower from her, a dusky-smelling peacebloom, and tucks it into his hair. “Very pretty.” And he resumes his waving.

 

  Sylvanas’s hackles are up and have been ever since they set off from the Palace with her little superstar charge. The crowd is too large for her to see threats clearly from this distance. Sunstrider is the sort of fool prince to ride in windowless carriages. And Silvermoon has already, she believes, been breached by- him- and further yet… he must know she’s the prince’s security detail.

 

  She’s poised like a viper, ready to strike. Her crossbow lies in her lap. The quiver on her back is bristling with arrows. “Yes, Prince Sunstrider.” It’s been too quiet for months now, all except for the disturbing reports from Northrend and their undead friend in the sewer system-

 

  “Kael’thas, my dear Sylvanas.” There’s a different gleam in his eye now. “We’ve known each other for so long, after all.”

 

  She glares at him for the split second she’s willing to take her eyes off the Square. “No, we haven’t. You made a pass at my _married_ sister. Four years ago.”

 

  “Her husband was nowhere to be seen, it was a mere mistake, Sylvanas. We’ve been over this.” Sunstrider has the audacity to sound _playful_. “Had I known you would be so protective of young Vereesa, perhaps I would have sought your company inst-”

 

  “With all due respect, Prince Sunstrider,” Sylvanas grits out, “I think this is a conversation to be had at another time.”

 

  Before Sunstrider can open his mouth, a lithe figure bounds into the carriage, and Sylvanas finds the form of Ranger Velonara pressed tightly against her. “Ranger General, the inn in Murder Row is hosting a Kul Tiran representative named Major Orion-Paude who I can’t find on their military roster. He’s booked as part of the guard for the final section of the parade, to accompany the carriage back to the Prince’s lodgings.”

 

  “Find him,” Sylvanas says, “and take him into custody before the speech. Impress upon him the importance of signing in for such events… the fool.”

 

  Velonara nods once and bounds back off the carriage.

 

  “Sylvanas, don’t you think that’s a little heavy-handed?” the prince asks, still waving and grinning out of the opposite window.

 

  “Not at all,” Sylvanas says. She leaves it at that.

 

  They sit in silence for the time it takes for the carriage to reach the central plinth in the Square, nestled beneath the glowing towers of Silvermoon City; if Sylvanas squints a little, she can glimpse the intricate trails of arcane power strung around the staging area. The arcane-amplified microphone mounted atop a flower-bedecked podium emits a soft, soothing hum. “Very well, Prince Sunstrider. I will bring down the steps.” And Sylvanas makes to disembark, only for a warm hand to grab her arm and tug her gently backwards. “Sir-”

 

  “Do you believe the city at risk?” Sunstrider’s bright blue eyes bore into hers. “You think Menethil’s forces are here? Today?”

 

  Slowly, Sylvanas nods.

 

  “Menethil himself?”

 

  She snorts. “I doubt that man-child would come within twenty miles of Silvermoon, but we must be prepared for all eventualities.”

 

  The prince sits back in his seat. Exhales a deep breath. “I saw your rangers sweeping the area,” he says softly. “You have permission to bring in more of our security team and those of visiting human lands who knew Menethil. And come back when you know it’s safe.” He squeezes her arm, his large fingers smooth on her slender wrist. “Return safely. Your mother will have my skin for a pincushion if you don't.”

 

  “Yes, Prince Sunstr-”

 

  “Kael’thas, for the Arcane’s sake.”

 

  “Yes, Prince Sunstrider.” And she hops out before he can rebuke her further.

 

  Anya and Clea materialise from the crowd as she slips down, crossbow deftly hidden beneath her long blue cloak. “Left and right of the crowd searched simultaneously,” she murmurs, touching Anya’s shoulder as though exchanging simple pleasantries. “And get Kalira to explore the sewer network where the dead human was found. I want nothing so unpleasant to crawl out of it today.”

 

  It is a great irritation that so many of the crowd today are humans. While Sylvanas is grateful for all the intel she receives from the human capitals- Kul Tiras most of all, from the Proudmoore woman who was once so intimate with Menethil- the sudden influx of visitors, and the crowds rushing to explore Lordaeron and Gilneas and Stormwind, are a nuisance for her security. “Check all the human males present here today,” she says to Marrah, who simply smiles. “Any who even smell like Arthas are to be told they must leave the Square.”

 

  The cloak brushing hers announces Velonara’s arrival. “Lady Proudmoore confirms Orion-Paude is not a major in the Kul Tiran military. Could be a misspelling or a fault in translation, but the innkeeper seems adamant. Alina is tracking him to find out why he didn’t declare himself before arriving.”

 

  Sylvanas can feel her chest start to tighten. “Go with her. Could be nothing, but find him, Velonara, now.” And as Velonara rushes away: “Cyndia, go with her. Wait, no. Find me- find me the Kul Tiran representative.” The bad feeling she’s had since awakening is intensifying. “Delay the speech and ensure the prince stays in his ca- ow!”

 

  Turning to the right, she crashes into the Kul Tiran representative and knocks her clean off her feet. “Lady Proudmoore! My apologies!”

 

  “I was warned about such elven grace,” Katherine Proudmoore says as she levers herself up.

 

  Sylvanas’s cheeks are bright red. “A thousand apo-”

 

  “None required, the grass is very pleasant. I’ve no knowledge of a Major Orion-Paude, but it rings a bell somewhere… somehow, I’m not really sure. You’ve delayed the prince’s speech because he forgot to sign into the Kul Tiran roster?”

 

  Sylvanas jerks her head down. “It may seem a little excessive, but last week the corpse of a man was discovered in the Silvermoon sewer system.”

 

  “That… is a full-scale alert?”

 

  Sylvanas looks Proudmoore dead in the eyes. “The corpse greeted us as we found it.”

 

  Proudmoore stands in nauseated silence.

 

  “Menethil’s last known location is Northrend-”

 

  “We’ve heard the rumours of his new study of necromancy as well. Oh, Light.” Proudmoore exhales a deep, shaky breath. “I’ve been making sure nobody so much as thinks about it around Jaina. But we’ve heard everything.”

 

  Sylvanas nods silently, watching Prince Sunstrider’s carriage move slowly towards the grandly-decorated exit archway of the Square. No doubt looking for somewhere to rest the horses. “We therefore have reason to believe he’s interested in the Sunwell. As necromancers have been since its creation. And the corpse was that of a citizen from Lordaeron. Silvermoon is on high alert and will be for some time. Therefore, any forgetful nobleman must be scrutinised, same as any unvetted adventurer seeking to visit.”

 

  Katherine Proudmoore’s head turns suddenly towards a tall blonde figure, wrapped in an enchanted violet cloak, play-fighting a representative from some noble house with crackling orbs of arcane magic. “I will do whatever you need in order to find any such plans, though I hope they don’t exist- as naïve as that hope might be… but please don’t tell Jaina he might be here. Or that he practises necromancy.”

 

  Sylvanas’s lips quirk up in a mirthless smile. Her own mother had been so quick to protect her from the evils of the world, until Sylvanas grew up and started shooting them instead. “I shall leave that message to you to deliver.” She can’t resist turning back towards the cackling Jaina for a brief moment, watching as the unfortunate noble squirms away from another seemingly effortless arcane barrage. In the corner of her eye, she can see the additional guards from across Azeroth forming up to accompany the prince back to his residence. “We’ll return the prince to his quarters and look for this Orion-Paude while we have all the military gathered in-”

 

  She stops. Katherine Proudmoore’s eyes grow wide.

 

  “It’s not Major Orion-Paude,” the Lord Admiral whispers. “It’s an anagram for-”

 

  Jaina Proudmoore gasps as the magic in her hand crackles and squelches into a filthy, spiky black ichor.

 

  And heads turn, discomforted, towards the growing font of malicious power snaking from the small group of representatives standing in the exit archway.

 

  “That son of a bitch!” Sylvanas hisses. And she’s sprinting across the square before Katherine can even grab for her daughter, screeching for her rangers and for the carriage to stop as the gentle hum from the arcane microphone sours into nails on a chalkboard-

 

  Every drop of arcane magic in the square corrupts into something rotten and malign in a split second and elves and magi from across the planet shriek in alarm as the force pelts towards the small regiment, sending orcs and tauren and night elves flying across the cobblestones as one lone human lifts his hands above his head and flings a small, pulsing cage at the carriage containing the prince.

 

  The explosion sends Sylvanas sailing back against the square wall, half-deafened and entirely senseless.

 

  Some meagre part of her brain vaguely registers Katherine Proudmoore, bolting for the blurry figure of a white-haired girl in a violet cloak, before she slips into unconsciousness to a soundtrack of screaming.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Proudmoore Keep, Boralus, Kul Tiras- two years later  
_

 

  “As if we didn’t have enough headaches,” Jaina Proudmoore says, brushing the lone lock of blonde hair out of her eyes. “And my devoted bodyguard’s reason for leaving so suddenly is?”

 

  “His mother in Gilneas is old and sickly. He wishes to go and spend some time with her… Jaina, I can hardly say no, can I? Think of all he’s done for us.” Katherine runs two fingers across her forehead, sighs deeply. “It can't be too hard to source a new bodyguard in time for you to go to Dalaran.”

 

  “A new bodyguard in… seven hours.” Jaina glances outside, at the full moon and the shuttered windows of Boralus. “Mother.”

 

  “We’ll find something,” Katherine says, a touch too brightly. “You go and get some sleep for your big day tomorrow-”

 

  “I should probably teleport us to Stormwind. Where people are awake.”

 

  Katherine sighs again. Deeper. “Yes… that’s probably for the best.”

 

  A few seconds and some unnecessarily mystical-sounding chanting later, and they step into the Trade District together, surrounded by laughing and dancing creatures in masks; a drunk orc slouches against the auction house, cuddling a dwarf snoring into his tankard. A night elf is magicking enormous pumpkins from a tiny patch of soil, transforming into a great bear at the shrieked request of a small goblin child. A gnome grabs her partner by the ankles and dunks her into the bobbing apples. The tauren in charge of the stall promptly yanks her back out again.

 

  “Well, this is jolly,” Katherine says, looking round, and ducks a half-empty mug of pumpkin ale lobbed from one orc to another. "I do always enjoy our relaxing trips to Stormwind-" And she dodges out of the way of a small squadron of adventurers careering around on out-of-control broomsticks. "They should really do instructions for those," she says faintly, as the group crashes into the auction house wall.

 

  A hunched guard with dark circles under her eyes guides them to one of the slightly more upmarket taverns of the city, uniform stained from head to toe with suspiciously orange splotches. The festivities seem to be no less raucous inside than outside but the innkeeper has a steady stream of customers being ejected, so Jaina and Katherine cautiously make their way to a table, returning the salutes from those still sober enough to recognise the Lord Admiral and her daughter, and order some Mulgore spiced bread and pumpkin beverages.

 

  The waitress, six pencils balanced precariously in her bubblegum pink bunches, glances between the two and points to one of the darker corners of the inn. “Guard said you were looking for security to hire,” she chirps. “The woman over there has plenty of experience. Doesn’t talk much, but she’s worked for every noble in Stormwind, Orgrimmar, Thunder Bluff, you name it, she’s secured it, shot it, neutralised it and hung it on her wall. But… she takes some getting used to.”

 

  Katherine’s eyes go a little wide, at the same second Jaina’s narrow. “Thank you,” they say in unison, and the waitress giggles and trots off to get their orders.

 

  “No, this is not a challenge,” Katherine says, at the exact second Jaina giggles, “I think I’ve found a challenge!”


	2. In Which Sylvanas May Have Met Her Match

_Stromgarde Keep, Arathi Highlands, Eastern Kingdoms- nine years prior_

“Keep firing!” Sylvanas leaps over the line of magi sending enormous pyroblasts and furious streams of arcane missiles towards the rapidly-approaching orcs, ducking for cover beneath the wreckage of a gnomish machine of war. Her rangers are flinging themselves from one side of the battlefield to the other as orcish projectiles rain down upon the hastily-gathered Alliance forces. “Don’t let them get to the dwarves!”

 

  By her side is Vereesa, her hands a blur as she nocks and fires arrow after arrow and Sylvanas holds her still for just long enough to refill her quiver. “Go and defend Lordaeron’s forces, sister! Terenas leads an advance with the Light’s Hope paladins!”

 

  She doesn’t need telling twice, taking off across the battlefield, dodging spiky metal cannonballs as an incredible roar comes from somewhere deep within Stromgarde and the orcs fly out from every corner of the Keep, smashing night elves and humans and gnomes aside and Sylvanas is struck with a sick horror in her stomach as one of her own rangers jumps out of a rampaging warrior’s way only to be flung aside by an enormous jagged axe.

 

  “Thyala!” she hears screamed, a second before Areiel bolts from behind Sylvanas’s line and sprints for her beloved. “THYALA!” And without thinking Sylvanas runs after her and tugs her blades from her waistband as she goes-

 

  The orc swings at Areiel and knocks her sideways just as her weapon sinks between two ribs and the warrior bellows, dropping to his knees, in the perfect position for Sylvanas to neatly behead even as Areiel drops to her knees beside Thyala and screeches her grief across the battlefield.

 

  “CHARGE!” hollers Varian Wrynn from somewhere behind them, and the earth vibrates with the stampede of Alliance soldiers belting towards the Keep, streaming around the three elves.

 

  “Areiel, take her and go. Now, while we have cover.” There’s still the faintest of pulses at Thyala’s neck, but Sylvanas fears they both know it’s futile. “Now!”

 

  “I need help,” Areiel gasps. “My arm.” And a glance down shows bone poking through rent skin.

 

  _Shit._ Alliance forces are still streaming either side of them. Sylvanas takes a deep breath and forces herself to be calm. “Areiel, stay here with her. I’ll find a mage-”

 

  “She can’t be teleported, she’s with child,” Areiel whispers.

 

  _What?_ “You allowed her to come onto the battlefield with child? Areiel? What manner of foolishness is-”

 

  “She would not let you down! Now _help her!”_ Areiel shrieks.

 

  “I will have you both discharged for this!” Sylvanas hoists Thyala onto her shoulders and sprints from the battlefield with Thyala’s warm blood trickling down her back, Areiel stumbling along behind them-

 

  The air is knocked from Sylvanas’s lungs as an arrow thuds into her chestplate and she tumbles to the ground just as Areiel slams down beside her, the enormous maw of a direwolf clamped around her throat.

 

  She leaps up and charges the orc with Thyala still balanced atop her and the direwolf leaps for her only to find itself skewered by her blade; it crumples with a whimper as the orc bellows with rage and charges, dropping to the ground a split second later as arrows impale both eyes.

 

  “Take that, you son of a bitch,” Thyala grits out by Sylvanas’s ear.

 

  “HOLD YOUR FIRE!” hollers an orcish voice, and both elves jerk round to-

 

  To Varian Wrynn and Garrosh Hellscream, crumpled beside each other on the ground, Wrynn’s grip still vice-tight around the blade buried deep in Hellscream’s neck even as the orc’s fingers fall from the axe bisecting Wrynn’s chest. The battleground is abruptly eerie silent.

 

  A night elf three metres from Sylvanas scratches her ear, face scrunched in confusion, even as the orc poised to slice her in half looks dubiously at his own weapon and slowly drops it to the ground.

 

  Sylvanas looks back. Areiel is gone, eyes half-lidded, throat gaping open. Tears well in her eyes at the sight.

 

  “Did we win?” Thyala whispers.

 

  “Not a clue,” Sylvanas grates out, furiously wiping at her face.

 

  And then shrieks in alarm as the still-steaming corpse of Varian Wrynn rises up from the ground, eyes burning scarlet, and tugs the axe out of his chest to behead the orc general Saurfang’s son.

 

  Even as the body lurches for its next victim, Garrosh Hellscream leaps to his feet and draws Shalamayne out of his neck, leaving his head flopping to one side as he lunges for Malfurion Stormrage and the dead lurch up all around them amid cries of alarm and Tyrande Whisperwind’s furious scream of “ADVANCE!”

 

  Sylvanas just glimpses Velonara and Vereesa desperately slicing a reanimated tauren into pieces just as cold hands wrap around her throat and still-congealing blood dribbles onto her chest from the jagged slash in Areiel’s neck.

 

  “You betrayed me, Sylvanas Windrunner,” she hisses, her unnatural strength crushing Sylvanas’s windpipe even as Sylvanas flails desperately for her blades. “You failed me and left me to die without my beloved! I will TAKE YOU WITH ME!”

 

  Sylvanas’s legs crumple beneath her and her vision turns black as she scrabbles at the fingers clamped around her throat.

 

  “I tried to save you,” she chokes out.

 

  “You failed! You couldn’t save me, Sylvanas, and now you can’t save yourself!” Areiel’s sepulchral voice rings in Sylvanas’s ears. “You will die and you will serve the Lich King with me!”

 

  “No- Areiel- let me- help!”

 

  “No-one but the Lich King can save you now!” Areiel screeches. “Let him take you!”

 

  Sylvanas summons every last ounce of strength and wraps her numb fingers around Areiel’s, jerking her body backwards and forcing Areiel off-balance for the split second it takes her to break free and snatch a blade up from the ground to run her through with.

 

  Thyala’s scream echoes across the battlefield as Vereesa comes sprinting over and wraps Sylvanas in a hug, seconds before the Ranger General’s legs give way and she buckles to the ground beside Areiel’s still-twitching corpse.

 

-0-0-

 

_Stormwind City, Elwynn Forest, Eastern Kingdoms- in the present day, eight years after peace between the Alliance and the Horde  
_

 

  It’s no coincidence that Sylvanas arrived in Stormwind today. She and her merry little band of fellow failures and exiles- Kinndy likes to call them the Forsaken, and in all honesty Sylvanas likes the melodrama of it- mostly survive hand to mouth, picking up odd jobs and fighting for whichever rent-a-mercenary wishes it today; Sylvanas is a little pickier about her work, preferring the company of nobles, admirals, generals, archmagi, even a few minor royals here and there. And when she heard a Miss Jaina Proudmoore was in need of a bodyguard?

 

  She wasn’t kidding Kinndy with her feeble excuse about lining her pockets with Kul Tiras gold, and she can hardly kid herself. Sylvanas’s guilt for failing Kael’thas doesn’t end with her prince.

 

  And, of course, if she runs out of excuses, she can point out that Proudmoore is the perfect lure for Menethil.

 

  After all, who captivated him from a young age, who knows so many of his inner desires and thoughts? Who fed intel to Silvermoon for months about Arthas’s last known locations and natural haunts? The Lord Admiral’s daughter. Young, intelligent, and beautiful Jaina Proudmoore. Sylvanas’s lip quirks up as she chews idly at a strip of braised plainstrider jerky. Once upon a time, Sylvanas was young, intelligent, and beautiful.

 

  Then Arthas Menethil happened.

 

  She sees them enter and sits up a little straighter. Briefly considers telling the gnome to wait until she’s had time to beautify herself a little, glaring through the gloom at the young mage everyone in Dalaran is so captivated by. But with a little luck, she’ll be able to convince the Lord Admiral swiftly and smoothly and get out of Stormwind before any high elves deign to enjoy the Hallow’s End festivities beside their compatriots. Mothers only want the best for their children.

 

  _And sisters,_ a sour voice in the back of Sylvanas’s head says. _Sisters who issue arrest warrants for their sisters._

 

  She glugs down her last mouthful of pumpkin ale, draws her pocket book from her knapsack and juts her chin out as Katherine and Jaina Proudmoore approach her corner of the inn. _Thank the arcane for the disguise of broken cheekbones. Literally._

 

-0-0-

 

  “Erm… hello?” Jaina attempts a smile. It falters somewhere on its way to her mouth, and the elf on the other side of the table simply lifts her head, motioning for the two women to seat themselves.

 

  “What do we call you?” Katherine Proudmoore asks, leaning over and picking a lantern up from a nearby table piled with drunk goblins. “I’m told you offer private security.”

 

  The woman nods. “I’ve references from Baine Bloodhoof, House Stormsong and the Kirin Tor on me. I assume you’re going to Dalaran.” She nods at Jaina’s mageweave bags, stuffed with books; Jaina nods in assent. “I served as personal bodyguard for Archmage Modera for a total of six weeks. Not so much as a paper cut.”

 

  “That’s very impressive,” Katherine Proudmoore says, still adjusting the lantern. She sets it down on the table and straightens the candle inside with a discarded fork; the elf shuffles back a little, just enough to keep most of her face in shadow. “So what do we call you?”

 

  Jaina looks up-

 

  And gasps at the sight of black scrawling scars on the woman’s face, seared into each cheek. “How did you end up exposed to corrupted arcane powerful enough to make _those?_ ” she yelps.

 

  The woman’s glare could melt steel in the icy silence that follows.

 

  “I do apologise,” Katherine says, turning slowly to fix her daughter with a long, hard stare.

 

  Jaina shuffles, fiddling with her nails. “I’m… I’m sorry. I understand it’s probably a touchy subject. Only I was injured in a similar situation and I learned a lot about the effects of magicks twisted by- you know what? I’m sorry. So what do we call you?”

 

  Red, penetrating eyes scan Jaina, up and down. “You can call me the Dark Lady,” she says eventually. “I’ll be asking for an initial payment of one hundred gold and we can negotiate my rate after a week of my service.”

 

  Katherine glances from the woman to Jaina, eyebrows tightly pursed. “You can supervise her for as long as she’s in Dalaran?”

 

  “Yes.” The elf- the Dark Lady- tugs a sheaf of papers out of her backpack and passes them over. “References. And no, I do not fall prey to commitments.”

 

  With Katherine buried deep in the references, Jaina takes the chance to lean forwards and observe the self-styled Lady. Who, in turn, watches her with a keenness that makes Jaina feel a little perturbed. _On the other hand, she’d probably spot a threat a mile away._ “I only have lodgings for one person in Dalaran. You might have to-”

 

  “That’s no issue,” the Dark Lady says smoothly.

 

  Katherine sets the papers back down again. “Jaina visits Kul Tiras every weekend,” she says, ignoring Jaina’s squeak of protest. “Are you happy to accompany her?”

 

  “I would be disappointed to be left behind,” the Dark Lady says.

 

  “Maybe every other weekend,” Jaina tries.

 

  “Every weekend.”

 

  “I’m sure Miss Proudmoore is more than capable of discerning a schedule around her studies,” the Lady says, red gaze still fixed on Jaina.

 

  Jaina grins and lifts her bag, tugging her coin pouch out from its hidden compartment. “This looks like it’ll work out.”

 

-0-0-

 

  Leaving Jaina and Katherine Proudmoore to count the coin required on the table, Sylvanas edges past to retrieve her coat from the rack at the front of the inn. “They took the bait,” she says into the folds of the fabric, and Kinndy materialises behind her with an enormous grin. “I want several members of the Forsaken in Dalaran by tomorrow. They’ll be tasked with supervising Miss Proudmoore alongside me and exploring the city, checking for any sign of Menethil. Make sure Lilian Voss is among them, I require her specific skills.”

 

  She pauses in pulling the thick leather greatcoat on. “And tell Nathanos to remain in Lordaeron. He’d attract too much attention in a city full of magic users.”

 

  “Will do,” Kinndy says, and snatches a piece of plainstrider jerky from Sylvanas’s pocket. “I’ll tell Corpse Guy to remain put for now. Until next time, Banshee.”

 

-0-0-

 

  Jaina stumbles through the portal, bags slung from every possible part of her body. “This- is Dalaran- sure you know where you’re going- think it’s down here,” she pants, dumping the luggage on the pavement and straightening up, rubbing her shoulders. The Dark Lady, in contrast, has one lone knapsack strapped to her back, only the red glow of her eyes visible past the thick woollen hood. “Looking for- looking for Firebrew Avenue.”

 

  Without a word, Jaina’s new bodyguard nods and strides in the opposite direction to where Jaina is pointing. “This way,” drifts behind her.

 

  By the time Jaina catches up, the Dark Lady is already in front of the door to Jaina’s new lodgings, tapping one foot idly as Jaina once again lumps all her bags into one giant heap and begins searching for her keys. “They’re in here somewhere. I think. Might be this one. Where are you going to be staying while I’m here in Dalaran?”

 

  The Dark Lady inclines her head to the alcove beside the building. “I can make it suit my needs.”

 

  “I don’t think Mother would be too impressed if my hired help slept in an alcove.”

 

  “Then who will tell her?”

 

  Jaina opens, then closes her mouth.

 

  And returns to searching for the keys. “I think it’s in this one,” comes from somewhere towards the bottom of the pile. “There was so much to bring, I wonder if I’ll even get it all home- and I need to find my Transmutation guide for tomorrow’s class- ugh, I knew I should have packed light.”

 

  The Dark Lady raises an eyebrow.

 

  “Found it!” She jumps up, key in hand. “There.” And Jaina squints at it, turns, and waves a hand at the door to click the lock and swing it open.

 

  Shaking her head, the Dark Lady follows her.

 

  “Sorry for making you have to wait there. I didn’t actually need the key, just needed to know vaguely the shape of it.” Jaina deposits it in a drawer beside the small, scruffy sofa and begins thumping her bags down onto it, a satisfied grin on her face. “Last time I was in Dalaran for tutoring, they challenged us to unlock Archmage Modera’s book cupboard. I ended up returning her copy of _Enchantments of Karazhan_ to her. She was both very impressed and very unimpressed.”

 

  “Sounds like you hardly need a bodyguard at all,” the Dark Lady says, finally sliding her hood down. Jaina’s eyes are instantly drawn back to the tear-like scars running down her cheeks. “Perhaps a pack mule would suit you better- would you _stop_ that!”

 

  “I’m sorry! I’m curious! People stare at my hair all the time. I just tell them the truth of what happened.”

 

  One slender elven hand waves in Jaina’s direction, as the Dark Lady picks her bag back up and moves towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Place enchantments on your windows, perhaps Antonidas himself will wander along and praise your handiwork.”

 

  “The only magic that I know of strong enough to produce scars like that, or to turn elven eyes red, is necromantic perversion of the arcane,” Jaina says, and her voice has a steely edge to it that makes the Dark Lady pause. “Unleashed in great quantities, it can rupture organs within intact bodies. It can drive its victims insane in a heartbeat. Or it can explode arcane energy within elven bodies, such as the energies used for skin markings, now more commonly found in elven makeup.”

 

  The Dark Lady marches across the room and Jaina finds herself pinned to the wall as she leans in, fangs bared and crimson eyes narrowed barely an inch from Jaina’s face, close enough that she can feel each rapid angry breath on her cheek. “I will tell you this only once, Proudmoore,” she hisses. “You are extremely clever. You are very perceptive. Yet you somehow fail to see the cues placed in front of your pretty little nose, so let me spell it out in plain Common for you: _do not presume to guess anything about me._ Do we have an understanding?”

 

  Jaina swallows hard. Nods once. “I’m sorry.”

 

  The elf jerks away from Jaina and heads for the door-

 

  A sweep of a hand sends Jaina’s suitcases crashing into it, barring the Dark Lady’s path, and she whirls back round as Jaina takes a step forwards. “I will tell you this only once. I might be your charge, but I know my worth as a mage and you do not intimidate me, you do not belittle me, and I hired you, not the other way around. Do we have, as you say, an understanding?”

 

  The Dark Lady folds her arms. For a moment, she almost looks _impressed._ “Miss Jaina Proudmoore, the mage who uses her spells to barricade her bodyguard inside, but not to carry her luggage to her lodgings.”

 

  “I don’t want to come off as too precocious to the other mage initiates.” Jaina juts her chin, hoping to come off as brave rather than defiant, but the elf simply snorts.

 

  “Take it from me: you will come off as extremely precocious whatever you do and wherever you do it. You reek of the arcane and you control it well enough to funnel the effects of a manabomb into your hair within a split second. Your concern is whether they will like you or not.” Red eyes flick back to the doorway, still blocked by floating luggage. “And to that I will say, that depends whether you hold them ransom with your bedclothes or not.”

 

  Gritting her teeth, Jaina allows her possessions to flop back onto the sofa. “Enjoy your alcove.”

 

  “I will.” And the Dark Lady sweeps from the room.

 

  It’s only after she’s left that it hits Jaina. “Wait- I never told you I was hit by a manabomb-!”

 

  Her only answer is the soft crackle of mana dissipating in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for clicking and reading! One quick apology: in Chapter 1 I tagged this fic 'modern AU', when I meant to tag it 'Azeroth AU'. And I completely forgot to proofread before publishing. (Me not smart.) So I apologise if that caused confusion! Though I do have a modern AU slowly forming somewhere.
> 
> Also: Sylvanas isn't dead. Yet.


	3. In Which Jaina Tries Her Best

_Dalaran, Deepwind Pass, Eastern Kingdoms- the present day_

 

  “Good morning?”

 

  The blurry figure at the end of Jaina’s bed is already fully dressed, boots and weapons included. “Your first lesson begins in less than an hour,” it says, holding out a small shiny object that Jaina is just about awake enough to recognise as her watch. “I suggest you get up.”

 

  Jaina bolts upright, rubbing at her face. “Shit! Erm… thank you. I’ll-”

 

  The watch thuds onto the bedclothes by her feet as the door slides shut.

 

  It’s only just light by the time the pair step out onto the street, the pinkish clouds above Dalaran giving way to a bright, hard sunlight; a handful other fresh-faced apprentices are meandering along to the University, one small gaggle huddled together, others clutching books and staffs and Jaina even catches sight of one with a small water elemental following along. “I suppose I will meet you after class?” she says to the Dark Lady, whose sullen, silent presence has hardly filled her with confidence for her first day.

 

  “I suppose you will,” the Dark Lady replies.

 

  Jaina attempts a smile, and to her surprise, she gets what could be called a distant relative of one back. “Enjoy your studies,” the Dark Lady says, and holds the door open for her. “And for the arcane’s sake, swallow the wasp in your mouth. It’s school, not Tol Dagor.”

 

  “Thank you.” And Jaina dodges inside before she loses her nerve.

 

-0-0-

 

  The merest flash of grey flesh catches Sylvanas’s ear, just as the door shuts behind Proudmoore.

 

  She saunters towards the side building, one hand already on her sheathed blade, and leans nonchalantly against the wall. “I’d come out of there, corpse. Wouldn’t want to end up like your little friends at Garrosh’s Landing now, would we?”

 

  The figure flees and Sylvanas takes off after it without a moment’s hesitation, even as they approach a steep drop and the undead chances leaping onto a roof to escape but Sylvanas just makes the jump after him and thuds down onto the cold slate and scrambles up before he can vanish-

 

  She tugs her blade out of its scabbard and flings it and the undead shrieks as he’s impaled by her sword against the spire he is attempting to climb.

 

  “… Nathanos?”

 

  “I’m wounded that you didn’t recognise me, Banshee. Literally.” Nathanos tugs the blade out of his abdomen, rubbing the gaping wound left behind. “Not the warmest reception I’ve ever had.”

 

  “I ordered you to remain in Lordaeron. Stormwind at the very least. Why are you here?”

 

  Nathanos drops to the floor, bent over. “To tell you Vereesa is in Dalaran.”

 

  “Shit!” Sylvanas swerves round, drops down to the rooftop beside him; he scrabbles in his pouch for a ragged piece of cloth to tie around the wound. “When did she arrive? How long is she staying?”

 

  “She arrived last night with her husband and their twins. It’s something to do with Menethil. There must be a necromancer somewhere in-”

 

  “Not in Dalaran, you fool!” _A gathering concerning Menethil?_ Sylvanas waits, deep in thought, watching Nathanos drag the blade back through himself, hissing through his teeth. “Nathanos, create a security alert in Silvermoon. Take Vincent Godfrey and stage an attack on the front gate. Theron will have no choice but to call Vereesa back if they suspect Arthas may be in the vicinity of Quel’Thalas.” She tugs two gold out of her pocket and places it in his ichor-stained palm. “Extra pay if they take down any wanted posters with me on them. Clean yourself up and get the fuck out of Dalaran. You imbecile, why did you run? Why did you not reveal yourself?”

 

  “I didn’t recognise you. I thought you were a mage.”

 

  “A mage.” Her voice drips with scathing. “What part of me could _possibly_ make you think I were a mage? The lilac robes? The spellbooks under my arm? The staff?”

 

  “It’s been a while since I was in Dalaran,” Nathanos growls.

 

  “So I see. Get to Lordaeron. Hide in the Undercity-”

 

  “That dive?” Nathanos snorts. “If I weren’t already dead-”

 

  “Just do it! Get Vereesa recalled before tomorrow evening.”

 

  “Or you could face your sister and tell her the fucking truth.”

 

  “Fuck off, Marris.” Sylvanas’s elegant face twists into a snarl. "Your brain must have rotted more than I thought.”

 

  Nathanos tugs a battered hearthstone from his leather tunic. “You’re lucky I like you, Banshee. If I didn’t, I would have sliced your head from your neck.”

 

  “I admire your optimism in believing you’d get close enough. Get Vereesa recalled and you’ll be back in my good books.”

 

  With a mock salute, Nathanos vanishes, leaving Sylvanas’s dirtied blade clattering back to the rooftop.

 

-0-0-

 

_Silvermoon City, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms- the day after Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider’s assassination_

  “This had better be worth disturbing me, on a day like this,” Lor’themar Theron says quietly.

 

  The grand room he and his guard are stood in is draped with black mourning curtains. Every so often, an elf walks in, face streaked with tears, and stumbles up to the casket in the centre of the room to pay their respects; there was not enough of Prince Sunstrider left to display, and Lor’themar has spent the entire day hoping nobody asks why their prince is hidden beneath the enormous arrangement of flowers. “I’m sure you appreciate that there is a lot in flux at the moment, Ranger,” he continues.

 

  The young woman in front of him dips her head, twisting the ring on her right hand. “Menethil remains on the loose?”

 

  “Yes.”

 

  “To get past the security at the Silvermoon entrance, he must have had an accomplice,” the ranger says.

 

  “Undoubtedly. Vereesa Windrunner is leading the investigation.”

 

  “Are you sure that is a wise choice? With the Ranger General also under investigation-”

 

  Lor’themar raises a hand, takes a deep breath. “No, I don’t believe Sylvanas could be responsible for this, and frankly the thought is abhorrent.” His mouth twists. “Though nonetheless, Prince Sunstrider died under her protection.”

 

  The ranger’s fists tighten. “Where is she?”

 

  “She remains in the care of the healers. I am informed it will be some time before she can talk. Or see.” Another elf enters, and Lor’themar returns her curtsey. “She took much of the force from the blast and the Windrunner family have demanded they be her only visitors.”

 

  “How convenient,” the ranger mutters.

 

  “Do you wish to make an accusation against Windrunner or not?” Lor’themar straightens sharply. His head is throbbing and his feet are aching from the long day of standing and pacing, he hasn’t eaten in nearly sixteen hours and his Prince, his friend, is dead. “At least wait until she is conscious.”

 

  “Why did she only begin sweeping the city the day of Prince Sunstrider’s speech? Why did she allow an undocumented man to stay in the city the night before, and why was she not with Prince Sunstrider when Menethil attacked?” The ranger leans forwards, eyes boring into Lor’themar’s. “These are all questions that she must be brought to answer for.”

 

  “We’ll see if she survives,” Lor’themar snaps.

 

  “And if she does?”

 

  “Then you may pose your incessant questions, Ranger! Now please! Have some respect. Prince Sunstrider is right there.” _What there was to scrape out of the carriage._ He grabs the nearest goblet and conjures as much wine as it can hold.

 

  The ranger turns to leave, marching down the gold-embossed carpet as Lor’themar takes a deep swig. Stops. Swerves back, eyes dark with anger.

 

  “I know that Kael’thas Sunstrider and Sylvanas Windrunner argued on the journey from Eversong to the square.”

 

  “That is hardly news, is it? They disagree… disagreed… on everything.” Lor’themar lifts the goblet to his lips again. “One of Sylvanas’s many qualities.”

 

  “The argument was over Vereesa. She was the Prince’s mistress.”

 

  The wine splatters across the embossed carpet as Lor’themar chokes on his mouthful.

 

-0-0-

 

_Dalaran, Deepwind Pass, Eastern Kingdoms- the present day_

 

  Jaina’s somewhat relieved to walk out of the university and instantly to the side of someone, even if it is the Dark Lady. There’s something slightly agitated about the woman’s gait that has Jaina concerned for her; not a good sign if your bodyguard is worried, surely? “Is… everything alright?”

 

  “Yes.” Scarlet eyes travel from Jaina’s face to the third-year books grasped in her arms. “Are those stolen from the Archmage’s private library too?”

 

  “No.” Jaina shuffles a little. “The tutors thought these might be better suited to me than the textbooks we had been assigned. Something slightly more advanced, they said, after I created a stable portal to and from Boralus.”

 

  “On your first day?” The Lady, already striding back towards Jaina’s lodgings, squints at her. “Is it possible you are a final year with a bad case of amnesia?”

 

  Falling into step, Jaina shakes her head. “I’ve read a lot about transmutation. Played with portals to and from Lordaeron when I was spending a lot of time with- ah. Never mind.”

 

  The woman’s ears pin down to her head. “With Menethil,” she says smoothly, but her voice is brimming with anger. “Yes.”

 

  Jaina runs a hand over her forehead, taking a deep breath as they turn into Firebrew Avenue. Even with the Dark Lady there, mentioning Arthas has given her an instant headache. _And the elves lost their prince to him. Good job, Jaina._ “Would you like to go to dinner?” she blurts out. “Only I haven’t bought any food yet and I’m starving hungry.”

 

  There’s a pause. For a moment, Jaina feels the heat rising in her cheeks. And then the Dark Lady says, “I would find that agreeable.”

 

  “OK… good. I’ll find some more suitable clothes.” She unlocks the door with a sweep of her fingers. “There are some good restaurants near the Violet Citadel? That’s where the more senior members of the Kirin Tor take visiting dignitaries. There seemed to be a lot of them today.”

 

  The Dark Lady’s eyes narrow, just a little. “A good idea. I’ll give you twenty minutes.”

 

  Jaina smiles. “I only need ten.”

 

  “Then we shall make it five.”

 

  “Challenge accepted.” And Jaina bolts inside, leaving her bodyguard stood by the door, shaking her head.

 

   Five minutes and thirty-eight seconds (and, from what her tracking spellwork is telling her, two thorough scouts of the street) later, she comes flying out of her lodgings, wearing a blue shawl, a long dress of blue-black silk and silver heels. “Is everything alright?”

 

  Those crimson eyes give her the once-over, narrowing dangerously when they reach her heels, the ones she likes to believe she can walk naturally in. “Are you dressed as the Citadel spires?”

 

  “Lovely as they are, I was trying more for oceanic than architecture.” Jaina smiles shyly, fiddling with the long sleeves. “I’m sorry the shoes make me a little taller than-”

 

  “I had not even noticed,” the Dark Lady snaps, already striding towards the city centre.

 

  “… Good?”

 

  And Jaina promptly trips on a cobblestone, levitating herself on pure instinct.

 

  “To be young and foolish,” the Dark Lady says beside her, extending a hand for her to balance on. “Perhaps you should float yourself there?”

 

  “Maybe you would carry me?” Jaina shoots back.

 

  “That is not a service you have compensated me adequately for.” And yet, Jaina can feel a hand on her back, keeping her steady as she takes a couple more steps. “Whoever made those shoes, point them out and I will shoot them myself.”

 

  “That is not a service I hired you for.”

 

  “Are you planning on spending the evening stood here exchanging wisecracks, or shall we move on?”

 

  “Lead the way, bodyguard.” And, when the Lady’s back is turned, Jaina casts a quick levitation spell on her shoes. Just in case.

 

-0-0-

 

  “You sit with your back to the door. If I tell you to, create a portal instantly.”

 

  “Where to?”

 

  “Anywhere besides the Twisting Nether.”

 

  Jaina shakes her head, already running her finger down the menu. The Dark Lady insisted on a booth at the very rear of the restaurant, with Jaina’s back to the door; she would have preferred a view from the window, but the Lady was insistent. “Please feel free to order whatever you want. I’m paying.” Her eyes flick to the Lady’s very flat, very smooth stomach.

 

  The Dark Lady, busily glancing around them, thankfully doesn’t notice Jaina lowering the menu to get a slightly better look. “Very generous of you,” she says. The restaurant seems to pass muster, for she finally sits back and flips the menu over just as a tauren with a notepad approaches, apron tied around her waist.

 

  “I’ll have the Stormwind brie parcel, please,” Jaina smiles. She can’t help but squint at the other customers in the restaurant as the tauren scribbles away on her pad; the lack of stocky men with long blond hair reassures her somewhat, enough to sit back and take a deep, relaxing breath. In the corner of her eye, she spots a senior Kul Tiran representative, lounged in a booth with someone in Gilnean regalia. The tall ears of a high elf protrude from the next booth, just before an elegant posse of Darnassian priestesses clustered round a vegetarian spread.

 

  “Eversong meat pie,” the Lady says.

 

  Jaina waits just long enough for the tauren to be out of earshot before leaning forwards. “Remind you of home?”

 

  The Lady snorts. “I’ve little doubt the chef will use the wrong seasoning, or the wrong cuts of meat, and they certainly won’t get the pastry right.”

 

  “I hope you’re surprised.”

 

  “Certainly would be.”

 

  Jaina forces a smile onto her face. The restaurant is warm, not hot, but enough to make her shawl redundant; she slips it off and onto the chair, stretching her arms in their silk mesh sleeves. The Dark Lady remains resplendent in her leather chestpiece and hood and Jaina motions to the red gilded headpiece, the beginnings of an idea coming together. “Do your ears ever get cold?”

 

  “Do you know anything about elven physiology?” The woman sounds almost _offended._

 

  Perfect! “I study the arcane, I’ve never claimed to be a doctor. There aren’t many elves in Kul Tiras. And the elves in Dalaran are usually too busy to stop and talk.”

 

  “Elven ears are _supposed_ to be cold. Humans, on the other hand, whinge and whine if theirs are anything less than scalding hot.”

 

  “I see.” Jaina leans her chin on one hand. “And you said I reeked of the arcane. You can… smell it?”

 

  “Sense it. We are instantly alerted to its presence.”

 

  “Like tidesages to the sea.”

 

  “If you wish.” The Lady’s eyes crinkle with a snide little smile. “Such as the levitation spell you put on your shoes.”

 

  Jaina’s face flushes. “I can take advice. So… you can smell me sitting here? Smell the arcane on me?”

 

  The Lady scoffs. “Every elf within a mile of this establishment can sense you, Miss Proudmoore.”

 

  “What about necromancers?”

 

  The Dark Lady’s nostrils flare; Jaina feels something akin to a thrill at having caught the woman off-guard. “If you’re asking me, can Arthas Menethil tell you are here, then no. Menethil is, fortunately, still only a human. A powerful human, who excels in corrupting the arcane. Human nonetheless.”

 

  “That’s, well, reassuring.”

 

  “It shouldn’t be.”

 

  The corners of Jaina’s mouth droop, just as the tauren returns with their food. The Lady gives the waitress a curt nod and slices a neat strip of pie with a gilded knife that Jaina is certain doesn’t belong to the restaurant.

 

  “A lot of dignitaries here tonight. There must be some sort of summit tomorrow,” she says eventually, fiddling with her own food. “Anybody from Quel’Thalas?”

 

  The Lady’s eyes narrow. “If there are, then I care very little,” she says evenly. And she returns to her pie.

 

  _Well, Mother, I tried my best._ Jaina sighs, picking her fork up once again and eyeing the gently-steaming food in front of her; thankfully the chef has created something magnificent enough to distract her completely from her cold, silent company until the last of the salad is gone, and Jaina’s mind wanders pleasantly as she savours the tangy cheeses and the delicate pastry and makes a silent note to tip generously on their order.

 

  Finally she sits back, resting one hand on the belly just bulging past the waistband of her skirt. The plate opposite hers is entirely empty, the Dark Lady’s eyes fixed on a nearby booth, and as Jaina watches the woman seems to inch a little closer, ears pricked ever so slightly up, coiled like a manawyrm about to strike as she lifts the knife lying beside her plate to-

 

  To wipe it with a napkin.

 

  Jaina takes a deep breath. The Dark Lady is intense company, and she _really_ should try to relax. “Was it agreeable?” She nods to the clean plate.

 

  “Very,” the Lady says, looking as though it physically pains her to compliment the dish. “There must be a high elf in the kitchen.”

 

  A smile finally breaks out on Jaina’s face. “I’m so glad.” And she motions for their waiter to walk back over, thoroughly relieved. “I’ll get the tab.”

 

  “My thanks,” the Dark Lady says, and continues wiping her knife. The residual trails of rare-cooked meat on it seem obscenely graphic for such a beautiful restaurant. “I have an errand to run later this evening, but I will make it as short as possible.”

 

  “Would you like me to come?”

 

  “No. You can safely remain at home.”

 

  “Alright.” And Jaina follows the tauren to the front desk, unable for the life of her to discern why she could possibly be _disappointed_ by the Lady’s insistence she stay at home… after all, home was where her books were, and the love of Jaina’s life was books, was that not right?

 

-0-0-

 

_Violet Citadel dignitaries’ quarters, Dalaran, Deepwind Pass, Eastern Kingdoms- present day_

“Many thanks, Mia,” Lor’themar Theron smiles, bowing deeply even as his overly-full stomach rumbles ominously. “Your company was most enjoyable tonight- I confess I was also expecting your husband?”

 

  “Oh, he’ll be here. And Liam and Tess will accompany him.” Queen Greymane’s smile broadens. “They’ll be arriving around mid-morning.”

 

  Lor’themar grabs the opportunity with both hands. “I’m told they are thinking of where to study?”

 

  “Tess is. Liam… well, he’s Liam.” Mia Greymane’s laugh is loud and fond. “But yes, I will enquire whether Tess wishes to study in Quel’Thalas.”

 

  Lor’themar can’t help but grin. “Outfoxed! Have a good night, Mia.”

 

  “And you.” She vanishes into her chambers, and Lor’themar gratefully lets himself into his.

 

  The papers concerning the summit lie on the small table in the centre of the room, beside a bottle of wine (Suramar- the Kirin Tor are really trying to woo their visitors today, it would seem) and a cheese platter topped with succulent Darnassian grapes. Smiling to himself, Lor’themar rests his staff by the bed and drops onto the plush chair beside the arcane flames in the fireplace. “This is why I would like to spend more time in Dalaran,” he says to nobody in particular. “The Kirin Tor truly know what it is to hold guests in-”

 

  He stops. Slowly stands, reaches again for his staff. “Who goes there? Show yourself!”

 

  Silence. “I’m warning you- I know you’re there!” He swerves round, hand pointed out, already crackling with the arcane in preparation for-

 

  A set of red eyes, fixed on his.

 

  Lor’themar’s jaw gapes open. “Syl… Sylvanas?”

 

  An arrow flies at him and he leaps out of the way, flinging frost across the floor and the stealthed figure grunts as its feet are trapped but it keeps loosing shadow-fletched arrows thick and fast as Lor’themar conjures shield after shield to protect himself and the room fills with thick black smoke as he throws barrages of arcane missiles and firebolts at wherever the thing could be-

 

  Out of nowhere the thud of an arrow hitting flesh sounds through the room and the door is jerked open by a high elven figure sprinting down the hallway and through into the gardens, an arrow in its side.

 

  Lor’themar swerves round to the back of a red gilded hood disappearing through the window.

 

  For a moment, there’s silence in the room, shattered by the clatter of guards rushing down the hallway and Lor’themar douses the flames with the flick of a hand as guards from the four corners of Azeroth descend en masse to his doorway. “I… I think the danger’s passed, but perhaps if you all could check the surrounding area.” Rubbing his forehead, he turns back; the room is entirely dishevelled, half the silken bedsheets burned away. “I may need a housekeeper,” he adds to the gaggle of armour-plated bodies still clustered around the door.

 

  “What happened?” Grand Magister Rommath forces his way through the crowd, hand already raised to cast. “Regent Lord? Are you alright?”

 

  “I’m fine,” Lor’themar says absently, as the soldiers file gradually away. “Fine, thank you Rommath.” His gaze is held by a single shadow-fletched arrow, smouldering softly in the wall. “Thank you, everyone. I’d be grateful for a sweep of the Citadel, but I’d assume they’re long gone.”

 

  “They?” Rommath’s eyes narrow.

 

  As the guards rush to comb the Citadel, Lor’themar extends a hand and carefully plucks the arrow from the wall. “They. There were two of them.” He squints at the projectile in his palm; Rommath raises a hand and winces. “Shadow magic, yes- don’t bother trying to sense too much from it. One attacked me, and the other…”

 

  “Did you recognise either of them?”

 

  Lor’themar licks his lips. “Please arrange for copies of the wanted posters currently displayed in Silvermoon to be sent here first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll take a look.” He places the arrow down and turns to look Rommath directly in the eyes. “Make sure there are multiple posters of Sylvanas Windrunner.”

 

  Rommath’s eyebrows draw together. “Regent Lord, if there is a known traitor here, perhaps we should call for reinforcements?”

 

  “This arrow is weak.” Lor’themar runs a hand up his staff, mouth a tight, angry slash in his face. “Poorly crafted. And besides, Sylvanas would never miss such an easy shot.” He turns back to face Rommath. “I have a plan, Grand Magister, but I will explain it when we know we are alone. Get those posters to me first thing tomorrow, we need them distributed around-”

 

  “Scourge! Scourge at the gates of Silvermoon!” A ranger comes barrelling at the door, so fresh from a portal she’s glowing violet; the guards examining the hallway leap round at her voice. “They attacked one of our patrols!”

 

  “The Ranger General is two doors down, wake her immediately!” Lor’themar whirls back, stares mournfully at the cheese and wine on his table. “I suppose you will have to w-”

 

  He stops. Stares.

 

  “Where are my papers?”

 

  “What papers?” Rommath, already mid-conjure of a portal, follows Lor’themar’s gaze to the table and shakes his head. “There was only food and wine on it when I arrived.”

 

  “The details of the meeting tomorrow were on there.” Lor’themar pinches the bridge of his nose. “Rommath. Tomorrow morning, go and find Archmage Modera, and procure another copy of the report. Inform her that in the disturbance, I hit it with a misplaced fireball.”

 

  Rommath’s eyes, lit with the light of his rapidly-materialising portal, widen. “You believe Windrunner might have it?”

 

  “Yes. And I believe we might use that to our advantage.” Lor’themar grabs one of the bags beside the bed, still covered in a dusting of frost, and levitates it by his side. “Let us see if some friends of hers have happened at the Silvermoon Gates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay- thank you for reading, and any feedback is enormously appreciated.


	4. In Which Jaina Improves Her Aim

  _Dalaran, Deepwind Pass, Eastern Kingdoms- the present day_

 

  Jaina is rudely awoken by a fist smashing against her door.

 

  “Open up in there! Kirin Tor!”

 

  She tugs a dressing gown on, shivering in the cold of the morning, and slides her legs out of bed. “I’m coming,” she calls, voice wavering a little. “One moment!” Blinking against the gloom- has she even slept properly yet?- she grabs blindly for her cloak and manoeuvres her way up and down the small staircase.

 

  “What’s going on?” The Dark Lady’s voice booms from beside the door as Jaina thuds into the living area and tugs the front door open, wrapping herself in thick blue cloth against the chill permeating the street. “What business have you, waking my charge at this hour like this? And none less than Lord Admiral Proudmoore’s own daughter? Choose your words carefully.”

 

  The guard, to her credit, barely glances at the Lady. “We’re searching for a high elf who broke into Regent Lord Theron’s chambers at the Violet Citadel not twenty minutes ago,” she says, spine straight, eyes already scanning the messy living area within. “We’ve been asked to enquire about any sightings of a high elf in the area.”

 

  “She’s been sleeping and I’ve been crafting. Only one high elf in residence.” Jaina, still rubbing the rheum from her eyes, glances down at the Lady’s hand; half a dozen freshly fletched arrows are clenched in a vice grip. “Anything else?”

 

  The guard’s gaze turns, fixes on Jaina. “And you can vouch for her?”

 

  The Lady’s nostrils flare.

 

  “Yes, I can,” Jaina says, quietly. Her eyes slide past the arrows to the Lady’s boots, immaculately polished at the restaurant, now spattered with mud. “I could hear her working from my bedroom.”

 

  The white-knuckled grip around the arrows relaxes, almost imperceptibly.

 

  “She’s been here all evening. I’m afraid she’s not your elf.” Jaina takes a step closer to her bodyguard. Guards are knocking on doors up and down the street, sleepy apprentices hanging out of windows or tumbling through doors in their bedclothes; the faint glow of the Lady’s hair brightens with every light flicked on behind her. “Is the Regent Lord alright?”

 

  “Quite well,” the guard growls. “My thanks, Miss Proudmoore, and companion. Goodnight.”

 

  And she marches off towards the gaggle of purple-robed guards swarming down the road.

 

  Exhaling hard, Jaina turns back to the Dark Lady. “May I ask a favour?”

 

  “Yes.”

 

  “Don’t breathe a word of this to Mother. She’ll have me back in Boralus before you can say “home schooled”.”

 

  The Dark Lady tilts her head. “Who is this Mother you speak of?”

 

  Jaina can’t help but laugh, breath misting in the damp air. “Honeymint tea?”

 

  “How could I refuse.”

 

-0-0-

 

  Sylvanas has barely even got through the doorway before Jaina has conjured a steaming mug and delivered it into her hands, flicking her hands to produce her own as she flops down on the battered sofa and scoots aside to make room. “I can always have a word with Mother about finding somewhere with a guest room-”

 

  “We just agreed Mother can remain firmly in Boralus.” Sylvanas angles her head just enough to catch a glimpse of a bubblegum-pink pigtail vanishing after the Kirin Tor guards. _Magnificent portal-summoning skills at the Citadel, Miss Sparkshine. Pity there was little of any fucking use in those papers._ “The alcove is amenable for the time being.”

 

  Jaina, sipping gingerly at the honeymint tea, keeps her eyes fixed on Sylvanas. “You don’t know any elves capable of sneaking into the Citadel, do you?”

 

  “That would be quite the complex task, with so many magical wards to struggle through. Would that I had time to gallivant off after the Regent Lord.” Blowing on her mug, Sylvanas extends a hand and lets the freshly fletched arrows drop onto the table one by one. Truth be told, she had barely spent a few seconds on each, but no shame in playing the fool with Kirin Tor magi whose knowledge of projectiles extended no further than pig bladders. “I’m sure I would love to see inside the chambers he and his gentry enjoy.”

 

  Of course, magical wards are of little use when the breach is merely an elf and a gnome through the servants’ entrance, but Sylvanas’s head is still aching from the intensity of the protective charm used by Lor’themar’s attacker. Little use against a truly-aimed arrow. Jaina would surely find such a charm fascinating.

 

  And little use against another red-eyed elf, apparently. _Who could that possibly have been…_

 

  Why was there so little detail in Lor’themar’s own papers? Surely he, of all people, would be privy to any and all information- any scrap regarding Menethil?

 

  “I didn’t hear you fletching, you know.”

 

  Swallowing her mouthful of tea, Sylvanas turns her head, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “No, I don’t expect you did. I remained quiet so as not to disturb you.” The papers are sticking into her side, hidden under her chestpiece. All she can use them for now is a little guidance and maybe some amplified hearing charms.

 

  “The skills of high elves continue to impress me.”

 

  “It was kind of you to vouch for me, regardless.”

 

  “Especially as your boots are muddied, yet at the restaurant earlier they were immaculate.”

 

  Slowly, carefully, Sylvanas crosses one leg over the other and leans back. Doesn’t miss how Proudmoore’s eyes flick to her midriff as she stretches her back out. _Ugh, don’t say the fool is jealous._ “Your spellwork no doubt informed you of my absence,” she says.

 

  “Perhaps I should suspect you of breaking into the Regent Lord’s lodgings. A sordid affair, or an attempt at usurping the leadership of Quel’Thalas.” Jaina, grinning cheekily, levitates each arrow in turn, sending them swooping through the room one by one; Sylvanas ducks one lazily aimed at her left ear. Just for a second, the glee in Jaina’s eyes reminds her of a beautiful blonde girl, flicking tiny fireballs at a squeaking noble as they waited for Prince Kael’thas in Silvermoon City. “You’d have the skillset for it.”

 

  “No, I did not skip off to rifle through that fool’s undergarments… sordid affair? We _are_ speaking of the same Regent Lord? I would sooner kiss an elekk’s backside.” And yet she put herself between the fool and an arrow from a fellow bloody-eyed elf. Perhaps Sylvanas is the true fool.

 

  Jaina giggles, her face charmingly young and joyful. Sylvanas can’t help but quirk her own lips in response. “He’s… not _that_ bad?”

 

  “Whatever pleases you, though if you’re after extravagant and fussy you could have your pick of elves in Silvermoon. I went to meet a colleague whose presence I requested in Dalaran as extra backup. Please return my hard work to the table, I do not require further piercings.”

 

  Jaina’s eyebrows purse together, the mischief gone. “I didn’t pay you to hire extra guards.”

 

  “You didn’t have to. She’s a mage, she can find work to suit her in Dalaran.”

 

  “Oh, the gnome with the pink hair.”

 

  “Return my arrows and I’ll tell you more.”

 

  The arrows, one by one, glide back down onto the table as Jaina conjures refills of honeymint tea. “She was the waitress at the inn in Stormwind where my mother hired you.”

 

  “No doubt her magical signature gave her away? Yes, her name is Kinndy. She failed her Kirin Tor exams but remains a capable mage, and more than a capable spy when needs be. The perfect disguise around Dalaran. Drink that and we can retire to bed, for good this time.” She really should be spending this time plotting what little she can with her stolen papers, but Jaina is agreeable company.

 

  Jaina smiles, conjuring a tiny water elemental in her cup; Sylvanas can’t help but raise her eyebrows as it swoops around the rim and waves at its conjurer before diving back into the steaming liquid. “How did you hire her?”

 

  “I didn’t. Kinndy belongs to the Forsaken.”

 

  “You’re a member of the Forsaken?” The mug pitches forwards from a slack grip and Sylvanas dives to stabilise it, the elemental squeaking with alarm. “But they’re- dangerous.”

 

  “We’re simply rejects and outcasts, leftovers from the rest of Azerothian society. Some by choice, others not.” Sylvanas plants the mug back in Jaina’s lap and takes a sip of her own beverage, watches Jaina’s eyes narrow in contemplation. “It is a gathering of convenience. Kinndy set an examination room on fire and lost her chance to become an archmage. There is an elf with her, Eversong, whose family fell from grace. And there’s a fair smattering of Kul Tirans as well. Now drink.”

 

  “Where are you based?”

 

  “Wherever we won’t be disturbed. The underbelly of Dalaran, on occasion.” Sylvanas slurps the last of her tea and cradles the warm mug in both hands, watches Jaina take a gulp. “Those jumped-up Kirin Tor guards rarely fancy their chances down there.”

 

  “And what led you into the Forsaken?”

 

  Sylvanas blinks. “Me?”

 

  Jaina nods, flicks a hand upwards and sends wispy curls of arcane to tidy her bedhead. “You’ve told me about Kinndy and Eversong, but no mention of yourself.”

 

  A sour smile twists Sylvanas’s mouth. “I’m afraid spilling sorrows is not in my contract, on either of our parts. It is very late, Miss Proudmoore.”

 

  “Then don’t tell me because you’re contracted to. Tell me because I enjoy your company.” Jaina, balancing her mug in one hand, levitates the arrows once more, forming them into a small squadron and sending them soaring across the room. “I have no experience of the Forsaken myself.”

 

  “Eversong is among our number because her family are criminals. My… dear kin… are the exact opposite.” Sylvanas lifts herself from the seat and moves to place her mug in the sink; it levitates from her hand before she can take a step forwards, clattering into the washing-up bowl. “My thanks. Goodnight.”

 

  “My father was a stickler for the rules too.” Jaina’s quiet, rueful voice makes Sylvanas pause, eyes boring into her drink as the elemental twirls around on the surface. “He believed no orc could live side by side with a human. No high elf could be trusted- that is _not_ an opinion I share, in any way- and no troll could be civilised. He ruled Kul Tiras with an iron fist, and my mother spent years to undo the crippling poverty imposed by him and his nobles. Gilneas and Stormwind rarely saw beggars or paupers, but no street in Boralus was complete without them. Father refused to accept help of any kind. His way had to be the right way. I believe some of the Kul Tirans were happy when he passed.”  She tilts her head back to look at Sylvanas, tears shining in her eyes. “My middle brother Tandred left for Lordaeron and died in the battle between Hellscream and Wrynn. I doubt you would have heard of it.”

 

  Slowly sinking back down, Sylvanas shakes her head. “I’ve never heard the name, but that means little. Your mother didn’t mention-”

 

  “Mother never does. Tandred followed in my father’s footsteps, he even died killing orcs. Father… taught him to glory in slaughter. I often wonder whether he would have liked Arthas. Gone with him.” There are tears slipping down her cheeks now, staining her blue cloak; the elemental dives aside as they splosh into her tea. “Like I might have done, if I had believed my father too.”

 

  Sylvanas, gritting her teeth, leans over and places her hand over Jaina’s. She’s never been good at offering comfort, far preferring a sturdy clap on the back instead, but her charge looks… fragile. Like glass, cracked by a cruel blow. “Tandred chose his own fool path, and you did not follow.” _Like I did not follow Alleria._ “You chose to share intelligence with Silvermoon instead. Now you’ve got yourself into a state. I will wring the neck of that fool guard for daring to disturb you-”

 

  “I am not a child,” Jaina growls through her tears, even as her hand tightens around Sylvanas’s. It is a surprisingly calloused hand for a nobly-born mage. “I am not in a _state._ ”

 

  “Then you are doing a fine job of acting it.”

 

  Jaina snatches her hand away. “Your rejection of your family does not mean I cannot mourn mine!”

 

  There’s silence. The elemental in Jaina’s cup hastily dives back down.

 

  “Goodnight, Miss Proudmoore,” Sylvanas snaps. She jerks upright, grabbing for the arrows on the table. “Until tomo-”

 

  “I’m sorry, that was such a low blow.” Jaina’s lip begins to tremble. “I cannot apologise enough for my rudeness. It was incredibly remiss of me.”

 

  Sylvanas takes a long, deep breath. Clenches her fists by her sides and moulds her face into anger so it cannot fall into sorrow. “Your apology will not suffice, Miss Proudmoore.”

 

  Terrified blue eyes swerve to hers. “I’m sorry! I truly, truly am, it was beyond awful of me to say something like that-”

 

  “Miss Proudmoore, if you wish to apologise to me for overstepping the mark, then the phrase to use is _I am so fucking sorry_. None of this flowery nonsense your mother has no doubt drilled into you.” Sylvanas finally meets her stunned gaze. “Likewise, I apologise for taunting you. It was unkind.”

 

  Jaina’s mouth opens, closes, and opens again. Sylvanas is reminded a little of a midnight salmon. “I’m so fucking sorry,” she croaks.

 

  “Perfect. And we shall speak no more of it. I am truly sorry to hear of your brother’s misfortune, but you have made better choices than he did. Now: goodnight, Miss Proudmoore.” Sylvanas steps towards the door only for her arm to be caught, tugging her briefly off balance. “I must remind you that it is half past two in the morning-”

 

  “How do you know I shared information about Arthas with Silvermoon?” Jaina bites her lip, rubbing furiously at a tear-stained cheek. “Were you in Silvermoon’s military?”

 

  “Gossip spreads.” The hand on Sylvanas’s bicep is deceptively strong. “High elves are prone to it. We need something to warm those cold ears of ours.”

 

  And thank the Sunwell, Jaina chokes out a laugh. “Given the circumstances,” she says, in a voice striving hard to stay level, “I think it best you sleep in the living area. An elf capable of breaking into the Violet Citadel must be a skilled combatant.”

 

  A wry smirk twists Sylvanas’s mouth. “If you wish, Miss Proudmoore.”

 

  “Yes, I wish.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _Silvermoon City, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms- two days after Prince Sunstrider’s assassination_

“How DARE YOU!”

 

  Lor’themar Theron leaps out of the way of a well-aimed pen pot. “Vereesa, can this wait until after Archmage Modera’s visit? There is nothing that has come directly from me, I am only repeating information I h-”

 

  “You are accusing me of cheating on my husband! My sister lies on the brink of death and you stand here and accuse me of adultery? I’ll KILL YOU!” Vereesa flies at him before he can duck behind his desk; the guards who rush forwards are sent flying with a well-placed kick to the abdomen of the first, sending him thudding into his compatriot as Lor’themar hefts himself up and wraps himself in an arcane shield in the same split second Vereesa tugs her bow from her back and aims it at his face-

 

  “What in the name of the Sunwell is going on in here?”

 

  “Good morning Rommath, I’m afraid I have no time to explain, but please help.” Lor’themar ducks away from the first arrow that sends his shield rippling, denting in front of his wide eyes. “Perhaps the bow?”

 

  Rommath sends a fat bolt of flame shooting at the rug Vereesa is stood on, forcing her to leap aside as it explodes in a fiery mess and giving Rommath a second to charge forwards only for her to swing round and slam her fist into his nose. “Good morning, Grand Magister,” she grits out, nocking another arrow just as the air beside Lor’themar’s desk begins to shimmer. “Just having a quiet word with-”

 

  “Lor’themar?” Archmage Modera appears in a flash of lilac light, glancing between the Regent Lord and the seemingly homicidal high elf standing over the crumpled Grand Magister. “Is this a bad time?” she asks, mildly.

 

  “Not at all,” Lor’themar mumbles.

 

  Vereesa stands, breathing hard, bow still poised to shoot. “How is the Proudmoore girl?” she asks, eyes still trained on Lor’themar. “I hear you’ve come to speak to Lor’themar about her.”

 

  “Jaina Proudmoore is a very gifted young mage, incredibly so, it would seem… and she survived with bruises and scratches. Katherine took her back to Boralus the same day. I was hoping to speak to you actually, Vereesa, and enquire about your sister.” Modera perches on the side of the desk and puts a hand out to lower Vereesa’s bow; slowly, reluctantly, she lets it slide down to point at the floor. “How is Sylvanas?”

 

  Vereesa blinks hard, clamping her lips together tightly. “She lives.”

 

  Modera glances round to Lor’themar. “Walk with me. Rhonin tells me you’ve spent a lot of time in the hospital wing these last couple of days. Some air will do you good.”

 

  Vereesa whirls round on her heel and stalks away from Lor’themar, who clambers to his feet, keeping the shield intact. Modera leans a little closer. “Perhaps you could do with coming to Dalaran and taking some tutelage in tact.”

 

  “Can someone heal by dose?” Rommath groans, half-draped over the dazed guards. He’s already conjured a miniature ice block to stop the swelling, and bears an entertaining resemblance to a Dun Morogh yeti.

 

  “Probably,” Modera says, and levers herself up to walk after Vereesa. “And for the arcane’s sake, brush up on your hand to hand combat. Firebolts can’t solve everything for you.”

 

  She finds the Ranger prowling down the steps and out into the Royal Exchange, wiping her cheeks dry. “How did Rhonin hear?” she growls, sliding her bow back into place on her back. “I assume all of Azeroth has heard by now. Vereesa Windrunner, Prince Kael’s slut.”

 

  “Vereesa, he actually found it rather entertaining. Said something about his wife being so beautiful, the Prince himself could not peel himself away from her.” Modera clasps her hands behind her back and clears her throat. “And how are you coping?”

 

  “Alleria’s lost, Lirath is buried and Sylvanas is… barely recognisable. The boys wanted to go and see her and I had to insist they made her a gift each instead.” Vereesa’s wiping fresh tears. “They used their inscription sets and Rhonin helped them enchant some paper planes to fly like arrows. On our anniversary last year, Sylvanas took them out into Eversong Woods and they crafted bows and practised archery and they haven’t stopped nagging to do it again ever since.”

 

  “The very same sister who suddenly became incredibly busy in Stranglethorn Vale the first time you tried to put the boys into her care.”

 

  Vereesa chokes out a laugh. “To think the Prince himself recalled her to Quel’Thalas for ‘extraneous duties’… and she ended up finding an excuse to look after them for one more day.” And her eyes cloud over again at the mention of the Prince. “I am supposed to investigate my own sister’s failings, Modera. How she allowed Kael’thas to die on her watch. How Menethil could enter Quel’Thalas through her security detailing. I have interviews set up where I will ask people whether my own fucking sister is a traitor! What if they say yes? What if she is involved with something dire, something malign, and I have allowed my heart as a sister to blind my sight as a Ranger and a leader-”

 

  “I won’t believe it, Vereesa. Sylvanas is devoted to her people. Interview them. Scrutinise them. Let none say that Vereesa Windrunner is anything less than thorough.” Modera puts a gentle hand on Vereesa’s shoulder. “And then we shall put these rumours, and those pertaining to you, to bed where they belong.”

 

  Vereesa turns away from Modera’s gaze. “Yes… let us hope so.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _Dalaran, Deepwind Pass, Eastern Kingdoms- the present day_

 

  “Ah.”

 

  Jaina, arms full of textbooks, pauses awkwardly at the foot of the stairs. Her small table, and the chair beside it, and the kitchenette area beside that, are completely covered with a spiky sheen of freshly-fletched arrows, each glimmering with just a hint of something arcane and powerful; resting in the sink are three mugs of black Un’goro coffee, each with faint pink lip smears on the rims; and on the sofa, beside a freshly-polished and gleaming bow, is a slumped high elf.

 

  Jaina is almost startled to realise the woman is a creature like her after all. A creature who sleeps. Maybe she even _dreams._ Probably of shooting people.

 

  “Erm… Dark Lady?” She chances stepping forwards, peers past the embroidered red hood. The Lady’s either a brilliant actress or out for the count. “Dark Lady?”

 

  She steps back, ponders for a second. She only has an hour before she is due to meet with Antonidas.

 

  “I’m… maybe going to be late if you don’t wake up.”

 

  Nothing.

 

  “Lor’themar Theron’s waiting outside for you in his underwear.”

 

  A faint snore.

 

  “That worked about as well as I expected.” Jaina can’t help but giggle. If it were her mother in front of her, Jaina would have no qualms about finding an inkwell and daubing a little moustache on her face… the Kul Tiran military once let Katherine and her inky facial hair command them for a solid forty-seven minutes before Cyrus Crestfall broke laughing and handed her a mirror. But there are a lot of arrows, and that bow looks very well-crafted, so she settles for a careful tapping on the shoulder until the Lady snorts and jerks upright.

 

  “Good morning,” Jaina says, a little unsure after the raised voices the previous night. To soften the blow, she conjures an almond pastry and drops it into the Lady’s lap. “Erm… could you maybe collect your arrows up?”

 

  “Of course,” the Lady says through a mouthful of pastry. “One moment.” And she gulps down the other half of the pastry, still chewing as she flies around the small room, grabbing armfuls of projectiles and vanishing through the door to the alcove.

 

  “You must have been awake late to have crafted all of these?” Jaina leans backwards to peer through after her, fingers working to magic up her own cup of tea. The Lady shakes her head, marching back through and snatching her bow up onto her back before dropping her hood to gather her long hair up in a low ponytail. There’s a small sheaf of papers stuck in the back pocket of her leather trousers that she tugs out and shoves into one of the magically-locked compartments of her travel case.

 

  “They are not difficult to craft after this many years’ practice. Even children can produce them quickly, with enough time devoted to the craft.”

 

  “But you’d only made six before the Kirin Tor guard disturbed us last night.”

 

  “Miss Proudmoore, if you genuinely believe I snuck into the Citadel last night, why do you not accuse me? Or send me back to Stormwind as untrustworthy?” The crimson eyes fix on Jaina. “I am not a riddle to be solved by your enormous brain.”

 

  “Are you not? I mean, nobody is actually called the _Dark Lady_. Or if so, your mother had strange ambitions for you.” Jaina perches on the arm of the plush leather seat. “You seem very comfortable in letting me see the holes in your excuses, even if those excuses are good enough for the Kirin Tor.”

 

  “My name is my own and the Kirin Tor guard are self-important parlour trick sorcerers who would soil themselves at the sight of a real challenge. You have the mental grunt to see past what they do, and so I respect you for that and I do not attempt to palm you off with futile excuses.” The Dark Lady straightens up, yanking her hood over her head. “I had only made six arrows because I was meeting Kinndy, the guard disturbed us moments after I had returned. I repeat my earlier question: do you trust me or not?”

 

  Jaina nods, slowly.

 

  “Then allow me to escort you to your meeting with Antonidas.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _The Violet Citadel, Dalaran, Deepwind Pass, Eastern Kingdoms- the present day_

“Good morning, Queen Greymane. Any sign of your husband yet?”

 

  “Not yet, Lor’themar, though morning court is held until twelve so don’t hold your breath. We’re having wildlife issues. The Cenarion lot are doing what they can, but there’s only so much meat stew one kingdom can eat. Enough about that- did you catch your intruder last night? And Scourge sighted at the gates of Silvermoon on top of that?”

 

  “No, they got away… empty-handed. And yes, Ranger-General Windrunner should be arriving back any moment now. She’ll be doing a quick sweep of Dalaran before the summit.”

 

  “You know, I met Arthas Menethil once. My lasting impression, the thing that really stuck with me, was what a weak chin he had. As though that part forgot to finish becoming a man. He was punching above his weight with Jaina Proudmoore.”

 

  “Ah, but few wouldn’t be. Let me walk with you and we shall find the Ranger-General.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _Borean Tundra, Northrend- moments later_

“I don’t know why you’re so afraid, Brennerick.” The spectrally-lit eyes of the cloaked man before him turn from observing the approaching party, scan the trembling man up and down; his torn and dirtied Kirin Tor robes, his chattering teeth, the hands clasping his Stormwind-issue staff white-knuckled before him. “You have a great honour ahead of you in meeting the Lord himself. And truly, this will grant you more freedom and power than your foolish commander in Stormwind, will it not?”

 

  “I-I know this, I do,” the wretched mage gasps. “The incredible mind who destroyed the selfish and slave-owning Kael’thas must not be underestimated, I know this, but I am a long way from home and I wish that we could have-”

 

  “Then stand straight and talk. The Lord has no time for qualms. He wishes every crumb of information you have about Dalaran’s magical security. We know you work hard on it, for what little compensation you get for you and your beautiful wife.” The man tugs his hood down, revealing a once-handsome face, now sunken and gaunt; Brennerick can’t help but suck a breath in. “I have looked worse, I assure you… my lord.” And he turns away from Brennerick and bows low as a horse comprised entirely of bones, carrying a black iron-clad figure, clatters into the clearing with a menagerie of ghouls and skeletal warriors hot on its heels.

 

  “This is the mage?” The voice coming from the helmet is like nails on a chalkboard. The cloaked man nods frantically. Brennerick is struck dumb with terror, the staff falling to the ground from numb fingers.

 

  “One of those tasked with the outer wards. He has heard much of your work against the fascist elves and wishes to join us in… a little warning shot to fire over Dalaran.”

 

  “Th-the inner wards are strong t-too,” Brennerick stammers, knees so fluid he can barely hold himself upright. “I know nothing of those. You’ll struggle t-to get past them without a-another mage with better knowledge of such enchant-”

 

  “I will not,” the Lord says, and his cold, quiet voice is a chilling promise. “Now remain still, my new disciple. As thanks for your show of courage and wisdom in coming here, I will complete this ritual personally.”

 

  He extends a hand towards Brennerick.

 

  Creatures across the Tundra bolt in alarm as a dire scream explodes from the forest.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Dalaran, Deepwind Pass, Eastern Kingdoms- a few streets away from the Citadel_

 

  “I’m nervous.”

 

  “I wouldn’t be. You’re here on academic merit.”

 

  “Not of Antonidas. I’m nervous because half of Azeroth’s elite is here. And the only reason this many dignitaries and leaders would come to Dalaran would be Arthas.”

 

  Sylvanas is suddenly acutely aware of the papers in her case at the lodgings. Memorising them was the easy part. Sneaking in past the Kirin Tor guards would be the agonising part. “Menethil is in Northrend. Hopefully freezing his testicles off in an ice drift with his skeleton friends. Gatherings of leaders are not unusual.”

 

  “You didn’t really answer the question. Not unusual, but rarely of this scale.”

 

  “Please cease being astute until you are in Antonidas’s office.”

 

  “I would appreciate it if you met me from the door.” Jaina’s hand, rugged and warm, touches Sylvanas’s briefly. “Perhaps just until the Violet Citadel intruder is caught.”

 

  “Then I will do so.” In truth, Sylvanas had been planning to do so herself. “How long will this meeting last?”

 

  “I’ll send an elemental.”

 

  “I hope Antonidas realises how large a library he will be requiring.”

 

  Jaina chokes out a laugh, turns and carefully, tentatively, wraps her arms very lightly around Sylvanas.

 

  She smells of the sea and a faint hint of water lily, and she feels like youthful vigour, and Sylvanas feels irritation rising in her as she realises that she’s stupidly _pleased_ Jaina Proudmoore is a hugger.

 

  “I’ll, erm, see you later. _Dark Lady._ ”

 

  Sylvanas clears her throat and quirks an eyebrow at Jaina’s impishness. “Indeed, Miss Proudmoore.”

 

  She watches her through the door, glowers at the gormless mage standing guard beside it- _you will be a puddle on the floor if a true threat approaches this building-_ and stalks away towards the Citadel. No doubt they’ll have altered the security detail. No doubt she will find her way past regardless.

 

-0-0-

 

  “I was kept awake into the night last night being regaled with tales of your expertise in every area of mage study.” The great Archmage doesn’t bother with a greeting as such, perched on a high stool behind his floating desk, leaving Jaina to guess whether she is to take a seat in front of it or not. “Modera seems very excited to have you with us, so I have found out some textbooks to keep you busy. Take them into the next room and return to me if they are too far advanced for you.”

 

  Jaina silently gathers the books up. “Erm… yes, Archmage.” She exchanges a quick look with the Kirin Tor magistrix who escorted her here, still stood at the door; the high elf flicks a hand towards one of the small study areas branching off Antonidas’s office and retreats without so much as a word. Taking a deep breath, Jaina levitates the books beside her and wanders over to the plush sofa to begin her reading.

 

-0-0-

 

  Faralza is old enough to remember the bells that tolled for the birth of Arthas Menethil. She’s old enough to remember the orcs’ chaotic landing on Azeroth, and her own bloody role in the humans’ desperate fight to throw them back through the Dark Portal, decorated in all the Azerothian gore they had spilled; more than old enough to remember the loss of the Ranger General of Silvermoon and their own Turalyon through that accursed Portal too.

 

  But never has she seen this many dignitaries in one place within Dalaran, and she doesn’t need to glance at the stony looks on the delegates’ faces to know their plight is truly dire.

 

  The Lord Regent of Quel’Thalas and the royal family from Gilneas pass through quietly. Behind Lor’themar strides Vereesa Windrunner, face cold and solemn. Stormwind’s delegation is enormous, with young Anduin Wrynn flanked and swaddled by guards and nobles, attempting to crush through the doorway as one and being forced to split down the middle and filter through in a mash of cloaks and embossed leathers.

 

  “I wonder if they leave young Wrynn alone to sleep, or if one of them is sat at the foot of his bed too,” Faralza murmurs as the delegation from Thunder Bluff clops up, and catches Myra shaking her head as the tauren bow deeply and follow Cairne and his son into the Citadel.

 

  Lordaeron, Darnassus, Orgrimmar, Ironforge, Gnomeregan, a gaggle of Trade Princes and Princesses so loud they set Faralza’s teeth on edge. The great doors slam shut. She and Myra exchange looks, clutching their staffs.

 

  “Let us hope it’s a false alarm,” Myra says, attempting to sound the optimist. Her face betrays her.

 

  “You and I are both old and wise enough to know it is not,” Faralza says, and straightens her back, staring out over the Dalaran streets.

 

  Something clatters at her side and she jumps, both her and Myra flinging blunt bubbles of arcane around themselves just as something small and magically disguised brushes against their forming shields and they fling their arms out to send thick clusters of arcane missiles into the-

 

  The air between them.

 

  A high elf in tatty clothing, stood on the street in front of them clutching a bow thick with arcane shot, sniggers and runs. “Ever vigilant!” she yells behind herself in heavily-accented Common.

 

  “Pathetic,” Myra huffs, letting her shield dissipate. “A child playing tricks.”

 

  “Perhaps,” Faralza says, and maintains her shield.

 

-0-0-

 

  Sliding inside, as heavily stealthed as she can manage, Sylvanas darts to one side to avoid brushing against a Kirin Tor mage sweeping the Citadel. Why would the Kirin Tor not have altered their security detail one bit? Everything, down to the last guard, is exactly where those papers hidden in Jaina’s lodgings said they would be. But perhaps why would they fear an assault from this direction, regardless- no attack would be expected to come from the very front doors of the Citadel now, would they? Only a fool would funnel their forces through such a tight gap as the entranceway there.

 

  So it was perfect for Eversong to distract the guards away from while she slipped through. She spares a moment to curse herself for leaving the stolen details behind. And she would do well to remember how comfortable Proudmoore’s seating was. No bodyguard falls asleep on the job.

 

  A tauren delegate rushes through into the central meeting room, and remaining cloaked in stealth, Sylvanas follows.

 

-0-0-

 

  “You are telling me… you have read _all_ of these texts?”

 

  Jaina bites her lip. “I know it sounds like I’m showing off, but… yes. Lordaeron had access to many of these titles. And the library in Boralus is also very well stocked.”

 

  The faintly glowing eyes above the bushy beard in front of her narrow a little, and Jaina shuffles, her hands clasped in front of her. “These are texts for those in their third year of studying advanced arcane empowerment.”

 

  “Yes.”

 

  “Miss Proudmoore, I do not recall your application form stating that you are a bronze dragon. Are you quite sure of this?”

 

  “No, I cannot manipulate time. I just, well, I do a lot of reading.” Jaina sighs heavily. “I’m sure you remember the political turmoil in Kul Tiras after my father… it was easier to stay inside and read, and go outside only to aid the people of Boralus where I was allowed. My mother provided every title I asked for, delivered by courier.”

 

  Just for a moment, there is silence in the room.

 

  “Modera has been telling me I should take on an apprentice for some time,” Antonidas says, in a voice that barely fluctuates in tone at all. “You will study with Modera for six months. In this time, I will observe you. If you are, by the end of those six months, sufficiently skilled to answer to me directly, at this point you will be admitted into the Kirin Tor. Then you will spend the remainder of your tutelage with me. We shall see if I will look forward to it.”

 

  Jaina tries hard to suppress an enormous smile, and it absolutely does not work. “Thank you so much, Archmage- this means so incredibly much to me and I hope I will live up to the standard required for you-”

 

  “Miss Proudmoore, your skills are, admittedly, quite exemplary in every area except your savoury delicacies.” Antonidas casts a sour look down at the talbuk cheese pastry he had seemed to rather regret taking an enormous bite out of; Jaina flushes. “Let that be the beginning of your studies.”

 

  “I apologise, Archmage. They’re… not a regular spell of mine, every tooth I have is a sweet tooth.”

 

  Antonidas turns and regards her, and for the first time since entering his office, Jaina feels a little true warmth coming from him. “We will rub along fine, I’m sure, Miss Proudmoore. As long as you perfect your raspberry tartlets. They were better than Modera’s, and I hope you will tell her I said so.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “I am Bolvar Fordragon, leader of the Stormwind expedition to Northrend. We will be opening these talks today, which I urge everyone here to keep brief, with a summary of our research in Northrend and our beliefs as to Arthas Menethil’s next move where his force, which we have termed the Scourge, is concerned.”

 

  “I am Varok Saurfang, leader of Orgrimmar’s respective expedition.”

 

  Saurfang is not a natural public speaker. He’s not the worst in battle, true, and he’s far from the worst leader he has ever beheld, but this plush podium in the heart of this mystical, extremely _Azerothian_ city is… well, it is not Orgrimmar, and nor is it his beloved Draenor. The Fordragon beside him is just as at home carving his way through acolytes and skeletons in Northrend as he is here in front of the clustered dignitaries, and Saurfang envies him the luxury of fitting in so.

 

  “Arthas has gathered a small, but loyal, group of living followers. These refer to themselves as the Cult of the Damned,” Fordragon booms across the room. “He also appears to be working with nerubians- they… do not appear alive.” He pauses, allows the murmuring in the room to die down, before continuing. “As for what power Arthas holds over these rapidly-expanding forces, and where he is gaining new recruits from- this is why I wished to speak to you.”

 

  Saurfang can only watch the faces in the crowd, as they wait with rising concern for Fordragon to spit the next words out. In the very front row, his dark-haired daughter catches her father’s gaze and holds it.

 

  Will they deny Fordragon’s words? Will they refuse to believe their own people could be seduced by such awful power, as the orcs had been on Draenor?

 

  “Arthas is turning people from every corner of Azeroth,” Fordragon grits out, face twisted in hatred. His eyes swerve through the crowd until they meet those of Terenas Menethil, who is gripping his chair so tightly the sides split into his hands. “We have been observing the Scourge activity not just in Silvermoon-” he nods his head to the solemn Lor’themar, who inclines his in return- “but across the Eastern Kingdoms, Kalimdor, from Theramore to Booty Bay to Ironforge to Silithus and everywhere in between. Arthas himself remains in Northrend, and yet he seems to… maintain control over these wandering recruiters.”

 

  “Recruiters?” Genn Greymane’s voice is loud from the back of the room. “What do you mean, recruiters? And what are they being recruited to?”

 

  ”There are necromancers working actively throughout our kingdoms. Every last one. For we have met undead of every race and colour and creed bound to his bidding. They return to our peoples with the illusion of life and they comfort the disillusioned and the lonely and the embittered with tales of great power that Arthas has waiting for gifted students such as themselves.” He turns to Saurfang, and his eyes are heavy with sorrow. “They cajole them into believing that their leaders are too far removed from them to recognise their misery and their daily hardships. They preach rebellion, but maintain that it is hopeless, and their finest hour will come if only they will join with Arthas and his forces- for remember what they did to the cruel Kael’thas of Silvermoon?”

 

  Lor’themar’s party lets out a simultaneous cry of anger. Tyrande Whisperwind turns and, in what could easily be considered the most civil interaction since the signing of the peace agreement, bows her head in solidarity.

 

  “They, almost without exception, return to Northrend with these creatures, and whatever Arthas does to them after their deaths, they are puppets, mindless slaves.”

 

  “Their deaths?” Whisperwind bolts upright with alarm. “He…?”

 

  “He raises them from death,” Varok grits out.

 

  Terenas leans to one side and vomits into a plant pot.

 

-0-0-

 

  Outside the Violet Citadel, Faralza’s narrowed eyes scan the street, mouth a tight slash in her pale face. Her arcane shield remains in full force.

 

  “My dear?” Myra’s voice beside her is soft and cautious. “I believe I heard something-”

 

  Myra breaks off with a choking gasp as a sword is thrust through her chestpiece.

 

-0-0-

 

  As the humans cluster around Terenas, magi conjuring water and simple sweet foods, Saurfang lets his own gaze drift across the other leaders. The night elves are huddled, glancing between one another, the great druid Stormrage and the high priestess Whisperwind hissing in melodic Darnassian that could just as well be song to orcish ears. Anduin Wrynn looks positively terrified, yet his jaw is set; Saurfang spares him a nod, and is grateful it is returned. The high elves of Silvermoon are speaking so quickly they’re falling over each others’ words, fuelled by fury. The tauren seem uncertain as to what to make of such magicks. In truth, he would not expect races so bound to nature and the land as the tauren and the night elves to comprehend the true sadism Arthas is utilising. The terrifying corruption of the arcane. Even the thought sets his skin prickling.

 

  He turns away, sick to the stomach that their tentative peace has been so shattered by a foolish spoilt prince.

 

  And his eyes meet a pair of burning red ones, hidden in the shadows at the side of the room.

 

  They widen as his do.

 

  Varok unsheathes his blade and takes a step towards the figure just as the door crashes open and the guards on either side scream as they are impaled by runeblades-

 

  Magic flies through the air as the ghostly pale warriors charge into the room and Varok leaps to the defence of those scrambling for their weapons, flinging himself forwards to slice cleanly through a rotting night elf and onto the human behind him without even pausing to spit the splattered entrails away from his mouth as more and more surge forwards and he can feel the magi tussling for control over their own arcane as malicious magicks seize upon every tendril and twist it into sticky black corruption, even as the necromancers are blown to bits by streams of lunar magic or bright fat fireballs-

 

  “How did they know we would be here?” Greymane shouts from the back of the room, carving through a decomposing goblin. He swerves to glare at Terenas Menethil, only for panic to flash across his face as he dives forwards and joins Terenas in struggling with an undead night elf who seems determined to take his head, sending the fiend sprawling back into a wall of poised Stormwind guards.

 

  “ARTHAS!” Terenas shouts, sprinting forwards, chopping his way through more of the undead to one side of the room, his sword dripping with gore and his silver gown saturated with blood as he bolts out of the room and into the empty corridor. “Arthas-?”

 

  Varok smells the presence to one side before he sees it and dives out of the way of a runeblade whizzing past his ear, slicing into his cheek and he rolls as far as he can but the skeletal orc comes clattering after him, blade raised for a killing blow as Varok scrambles for cover and finds none.

 

  A finely-fletched arrow crunches through the creature’s skull, sending it crumpling to the ground, and Varok looks up to the red eyes standing over him, in the scarred face of a high elf. Holding an empty quiver in one hand, extending the other to him.

 

  _Red-eyed high elf…_

 

  “Intruder,” he snarls.

 

  The red eyes narrow. The elf mutters a curse in Thalassian and disappears.

 

  “Where are you?” Varok struggles up. All around him is panic and carnage, the floor littered with bodies. Baine Bloodhoof has a gash running the length of his great meaty arm. Grand Magister Rommath appears unconscious, bleeding rapidly from his temple. Bolvar is nursing a slash to his leg, and right beside him Archmage Modera seems to have taken the same runeblade to the knee. His eyes fall to the Scourge crumpled beneath him, some scorched or frozen, others branded with druidic or shamanic power, some filled with stab wounds or crushed by great heavy warhammers… and some, in amongst the corpses, are filled with finely fletched Thalassian arrows, of two different colours.

 

  His eyes flick to Ranger General Windrunner, and the two remaining bows in her quiver. Both of them fletched green.

 

  One hand reaches down to pluck the red-fletched arrow out of the closest body and turn it over in his hands once, twice, before stuffing it in his pocket and moving towards the door with the cluster of those still capable of fighting.

 

-0-0-

 

  “With me, Jaina!” Antonidas, flanked by the frantic Kirin Tor messenger still gabbling about an attack on the Citadel, runs out of the door more nimbly than any man his age has the right to be, and without thinking Jaina follows him, grabbing her staff and beckoning the water elemental as she runs.

 

  “Find the Dark Lady,” she gasps to the elemental as she goes, and it splatters away.

 

  The moment they round the corner to the Citadel, Antonidas grabs Jaina by the shoulders and turns her bodily around; she’s too shocked to protest, held firmly in place by the warm weight of his hands. “Jaina,” he says, blue eyes dark, “there are many bodies outside the Citadel. They are not intact. Keep your gaze fixed on my cloak and do not let it waver.”

 

  “Yes, Archmage,” Jaina says, in a small voice.

 

  “Do you remember meeting Arthas in Dalaran any time, Jaina? How well would he know the city?”

 

  Jaina keeps her eyes trained to the elaborate embroidery of Antonidas’s cloak sleeve. “Only once, Archmage. We walked around the park. Then I teleported us back. It’s not a city designed to impress a paladin and Arthas had no close friends here, so any visiting him would have been asked to travel to Lordaeron, given Arthas’s status.” She glances down to the floor before she can help herself, to the faintly-glowing corpse of a girl barely older than herself, stiffening hands still clutching a bloodied runeblade. Vomit rises in her mouth and her eyes water with the effort of keeping it down.

 

  “I warned you,” Antonidas says, but his voice is almost gentle.

 

  In lieu of replying, Jaina bends. Forces herself to breathe shallowly as she kneels beside the girl and gently closes her eyes. “She wears a necklace,” she chokes out, feeling her way past the metal chestpiece enchanted with vile magicks and down the gleaming chain half-covered in congealed blood. Gently, she draws the pendant out and lifts it up to rub the gore off it.

 

  “She is of House Waycrest,” she whispers.

 

  The girl’s eyes snap open.

 

  “JAINA!” Antonidas flings the girl backwards with a blast of arcane, a great thick wall of ice crunching into being between them as the girl-

 

  As she slowly wobbles her way to her feet, looks down at herself, and begins to scream.

 

  Inside the Citadel, a great cry of panic explodes, and Antonidas glances back at the girl for a split second before grabbing Jaina and hauling her inside with him.

 

  “Stay with me,” he hisses as great lilac shields encase the pair and on instinct Jaina sends a blast of icy bullets at the rotting tauren stumbling towards her, sending it careening back to the floor in a pile of decomposed limbs. “Good- well aimed, keep doing that-” He’s forced to cut himself off as a runeblade glances off the shield and on instinct Jaina backs towards him, sending a desperate stream of frostbolts at a high elf with his rotten intestines swinging before his legs as he stumbles towards her-

 

  He collapses as his right hand side is filled thick with arrows.

 

  “JAINA!” The Dark Lady leaps into the shield with her and fires a swift volley at the rapidly approaching corpse of a Gilnean noble, so freshly killed his blood is steaming; Jaina finishes him off with a pyroblast. “We have to get you out of here- can you teleport?”

 

  “It’s too risky,” Antonidas says, just as Jaina opens her mouth. “Any arcane power can be perverted by necromancers.” He turns his head, hands still weaving elaborate webs of frost and ice around the undead, and fixes his gaze on the Dark Lady. “Take her and hide her in your lodgings. Now!”

 

  The Lady doesn’t have to be told twice, grabbing hold of Jaina’s hand and tugging her towards the entrance. “Shield us, Jaina. I’ll destroy them.”

 

  Forehead furrowed and gleaming with sweat, Jaina throws her hands up and the familiar warmth of the arcane fills her, purple walls surrounding them as the Lady nudges her forwards, bow at the ready and filled with red-fletched arrows. They stride forwards through the silent entryway, out into the blinding sunlight and the Lady turns to put a dozen arrows into the twitching body of one of the door guards.

 

  “Stay close, Lady,” Jaina whispers. “I can’t-” She has spent so much power today, she can feel it draining away from her, the shield sparking and flickering around them.

 

  The Lady jumps as a droplet of oozing black filth plops from the disintegrating shield onto her leg.

 

  And it hits Jaina like a charging kodo. “Shit! My shield! It’s-”

 

  The Lady tackles Jaina to the ground as a dagger crackling with necromantic energies flies through where a second earlier her head had been.

 

  Instinctively, Jaina surrounds them both with an ice shield, only for it to shatter beneath the crushing weight of whatever foul magicks the necromancer stalking towards them is using, face hidden by a black hood. “They’ve twisted the arcane,” she whispers, nausea rising in her stomach as fresh screams ring from inside the Citadel. “Just like they did-”

 

  “-in Silvermoon,” the Lady hisses, and before Jaina can grab her she’s leaping forwards with the speed of a nightsaber and the necromancer only just dodges to one side as her blades thrust through the ghost of its torso; Jaina flings frost at its feet and chills its limbs but the foul being just kicks the chill off and she can hear the Lady grunting with the effort of parrying its heavy blows as it sends thick blasts of shadow magic at her and forces her back closer to Jaina until the heel of her boot is braced against Jaina’s shield.

 

  “Jaina,” the Lady hisses, ducking a blow to her head and kicking as hard as she can with the metal tip of one muddy boot. “Run. Go.”

 

  _No!_ Jaina draws all the energy she can grasp to herself and fashions it into a nova of fire, forcing the necromancer backwards as flames lap at its robes. “You wouldn’t stand a chance without me,” she grits out, crouched on the ground, heart thumping in her throat.

 

  “Go!” the Lady screams, and flies at the necromancer with daggers drawn, slashing as hard as she can at its face and robes and Jaina grits her teeth as the sheer force of the magic she is channelling begins to pain her with each fiery bolt or icicle she sends slamming into the necromancer’s enchanted armour with enough intensity to sear through unprotected flesh-

 

  The necromancer swerves from the fire blast that catches only its hood and reveals a thick-set jaw and dark beard, a split second before it slashes upwards and the Lady falls backwards, blood dripping from her shoulder.

 

  “NO!” Jaina throws her entire body into one final desperate cast and a fireball the size of a dwarf slams into the necromancer, sends it skittering away down the street, keening in agony.

 

  Just for a second, as she tumbles to her hands and knees with the force of the spell and the gut shock of relief, her eyes catch the coldest of gazes from beneath the black helm of a ghostly horseback rider, perched atop a skeletal mount that bears the tattered harness of Arthas’s beloved Invincible.

 

  The figure raises a hand to wave at her, a split second before the gaunt mage in Kirin Tor robes beside it teleports them from Dalaran.

 

  From inside the Citadel, a shout of relief goes up.

 

  Choking back tears, heart pounding a hundred miles a minute, Jaina crawls unsteadily through a haze of exhaustion towards the slumped figure in front of her. “Are… are you alright?” She gingerly explores the gash to the Lady’s upper chest, watches with tears of relief sliding down her cheeks as the woman opens her eyes and moves to push herself upright with her good arm. “Stay there, I’ll find a healer- I think it’s safe for the time being?”

 

  “Where is he? Where is Arthas?” The Lady reaches for her shattered blade but only manages to fall back down onto her back, gritting her teeth as she scrambles instead one-handed for one of her hip pouches. “He fucking got away… Stuff that into my shoulder.” She tugs a bloodstained cloth reeking of herbs out and proffers it to Jaina, who winces. “Just do it, Jaina! We can still track him-”

 

  “He teleported. Even if we track him, his mage will have used multiple spells. We might be able to guess the continent, if we’re lucky.” Jaina wipes the tears from her cheeks, chest shuddering in an effort to keep her crying under control. “I need to get you healed-”

 

  “I am not waiting for a healer, this will suffice.” Huffing in something between exhaustion and agony, the Lady puts her own hand over Jaina’s and guides the fabric to the gash, hissing and sucking her teeth as Jaina applies a little more pressure. “Yes, keep going, I am no stranger to pain- shit!”

 

  “I thought you said you weren’t a stranger to-”

 

  The Lady leaps up, galvanised by something Jaina has no idea about; she herself is swaying on her feet, blinking at the Lady as she wraps her good arm around her and limps quickly away from the Citadel. “Dark Lady? What-”

 

  “It’s too dangerous to stay here. The Kirin Tor are better equipped than us to deal with the threat of any further Scourge incursions into the city. I would be a poor bodyguard to not be removing you from a situation of clear threat. We need to get you home, not Dalaran, Boralus.”

 

  “If you insist.” Stretching a tentative hand out, Jaina tests the little magic she can gather to herself; the arcane returns like a scared child, flitting to do her will, relaxing as it falls back into familiar patterns. The portal springs up and she nods to the Lady, whose arm is still tight about her shoulders. “You first. Just in case I need to do another one for me.”

 

  The Lady’s eyes are fixed on one of the high elves walking out of the Citadel, clad in an elegant uniform smattered with gore. “Of course,” she says, absently, and steps through the portal without tearing her gaze from the elf now bending to examine the corpse of a charred human.

 

  Jaina exhales hard as the portal remains strong. Rubs her forehead with a shaking hand, and takes a step through the portal a split second before it falters closed, to be greeted with a gentle sea breeze over the salty tracks on her cheeks and the bridge into her beloved Boralus stretching out before her.

 

  The Lady has already perched on a nearby rock, her breath coming in sharp gasps, and Jaina’s blood turns as icy as her frostbolts at the sight of her so pale and battered, bruises already springing up on every patch of skin she can see. “Stop staring,” she snaps as her eyes catch Jaina’s shocked gaze, “I’m a bodyguard, and I guarded with my body. Now call for help. There must be someone nearby.”

 

  Jaina swerves round. There is nobody around save for the seagulls. She attempts to call upon the arcane again, tracing out the beginnings of a fresh portal, but her power is truly exhausted. “It’s high tide, the fisherfolk will be at home- just balance on me. You need help walking?”

 

  “No I don’t,” the Dark Lady growls, levering herself off the rock only for her foot to slip in the sand and send her sprawling to the ground. “I still don’t!”

 

  Jaina snorts despite herself, despite the deep ache in her bones and the slowly-settling shock. “You would prefer to make your own way to Boralus?”

 

  Silence.

 

  “I’m glad to hear it. Now please allow the Proudmoore Admiralty to assist you.”

 

  And, scowling, she allows Jaina to drape one of her arms around her shoulders and carefully lift her from the rock.

 

  They limp along mutely together, the Dark Lady’s jaw tightly clenched, grunting with discomfort every so often as the smooth mud path turns to cobblestones. There are so many questions Jaina wants to ask her, to ask Antonidas, to ask the Kirin Tor. But for the time being, she wants her mother, and she wants to know she and the Dark Lady are safe from Arthas and his fiends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in uploading this chapter, I'm in my final year of university and TV Production is pretty labour intensive. Hope the chapter was enjoyable and I would be super grateful for any feedback!
> 
> Also: Sylvanas isn't dead. Yet.


	5. In Which Jaina and Sylvanas Try Not to be Afraid

  _Violet Hold, Dalaran, Deepwind Pass, Eastern Kingdoms- three years on_

 “Look at her,” Modera says, almost softly.

 

  The girl from House Waycrest lies on her threadbare mattress, curled into herself. The tableau is almost peaceful, until she shifts her head and the gaping gash across her throat is exposed in its bloody glory. “She would have been a fine woman to lead her house,” Modera continues. “By all accounts, intelligent and brave. The perfect sort of woman for Arthas to twist.”

 

  She turns, fixes her gaze on the guard beside the door. “And you say she has been-?”

 

  “Something happened last night,” the guard says. The long brown hair falling across her eyes cannot hide the fear in them. “She was talking, but we could not make out the words. Not Common, not any language we might know… it was a guttural language, comprising of grunts and growls. Not unlike a boar, Archmage.”

 

  “I see. And who was she talking to?”

 

  The guard nods across the room, where Lord Crowley lies, tethered by chains. “I could have sworn they held a conversation, but we could only decipher one word. Nax-ramas? Something similar? Something is happening, Archmage. The reports from Northrend-”

 

  “They could not be clearer,” Modera murmurs. “Ranger General Windrunner sent a messenger from Quel’Thalas with all haste this morning. More Scourge. Further undead high elves. And Gilneas…” Her voice trails off. “We know they are overtaken.”

 

  The undead in front of her raises her head.

 

  The magi swerve round and Modera throws her arms out to shield them from attack even as the guards race forwards to flank her, alarm flares fizzling through the air. “Gilneas,” comes rasped from the rotting pile, in that rattling voice that sends Modera’s heart racing. “Gilneas… gone.” She coughs a grating laugh. “Ours now. Our city! Gilneas belongs to the Scourge!”

 

  “To the Scourge!” Lord Crowley screams behind them.

 

  The doors crash open and Kirin Tor fill the room with wands and staves drawn as Modera leaps into the centre of the room, hands held wide. “Do not kill them! DO NOT TOUCH THEM! They are our only link to Arthas!”

 

  “Arthas will devour you all!” the girl shrieks.

 

  “Arthas will destroy the so-called leaders and bring about a new era of glory!” Crowley cackles.

 

  “Let them talk,” Modera says, only the slightest quiver in her voice. “They cannot escape.”

 

  “Arthas will crush the Kirin Tor beneath his boot,” the girl shouts. “He will burn Teldrassil! He will obliterate Orgrimmar! He will bring Dalaran crashing to the ground with the force of his army!”

 

  Lord Crowley strains against his chains, glaring directly at Modera. “And he will retake the Proudmoore legacy for his own,” he brays. “He will destroy those around her and claim her for himself! He will take her beauty and double it in undeath!”

 

  “Kill him,” Modera grits out. “Again, kill him again.” And no sooner have the words left her lips than Crowley is a smoking pile of ash on the ground.

 

  “Beware the Daughter of the Sea,” the girl howls. “Beware, I heard him cry!”

 

  “Her too?” asks the closest mage.

 

  “It’s only an old Kul Tiran sea shanty, based on some crusty legend. We need one of them alive… undead… whatever they are.” She raises her voice. “Leave the girl. I will travel to Darnassus and speak personally with High Priestess Whisperwind, and from there, the other leaders in Kalimdor. Rhonin?” A scruffy red head turns her way. “Warn the cities in the Eastern Kingdoms. Do not attempt contact with Gilneas.”

 

  “Beware the Daughter of the Sea!” the girl cries again, and subsides into a crowing heap on the floor.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Proudmoore Keep, Boralus, Kul Tiras- one week later_

 

  “HARDER!”

 

  Jaina grunts and throws her whole body into the next thrust.

 

  “For fuck’s sake, Jaina, I’m almost-”

 

  “Inside!”

 

  The Dark Lady throws her blade down, snarling. “It’s rain, Miss Proudmoore. Your skin is, amazingly, waterproof. You had two more repetitions to go.”

 

  Jaina grabs the Lady’s weapon and throws it with her own back on the rack, backing them both under the low awning beside their sparring area. “You enjoy being wet?”

 

  The Lady snorts, but a wry grin twists her mouth. “My, you have grown.”

 

  “You say that as though you haven’t _seen_ me every day for the last however many years.” Jaina props the door to the Keep entryway open, ducking to one side as a gaggle of guards clatter past, shouting their thanks to her past the rapidly-worsening storm. The Lady pauses on the other side until they’re tramping through into their quarters.

 

  “Sometimes you surprise me.”

 

  There’s something oddly wistful about the Lady’s voice, something that makes Jaina stare as they plod through into the private quarters Jaina was afforded upon her return from Dalaran. “I see,” she says, and decides to allow the Lady to open up if she so wishes.

 

  She never does, so Jaina conjures her some coffee instead, plopping down on a high-backed easy chair and grabbing a slice of Stranglethorn fruit toast for herself. “I think I’m getting better. You only managed to dodge most of my blows today.”

 

  The Lady raises an eyebrow. “Were I a rogue or a melee skilled combatant, Miss Proudmoore, you would have done far better to cast an ice block around me. Your parrying ability is inferior to mine, and indeed to most fighters who prefer blades, though I grant you, it has improved… slightly.”

 

  “You were already in a foul mood. I didn’t think ice blocking you would have improved it any.”

 

  The Lady scowls. “I was in a foul mood, as you so graciously describe it, because you were failing to utilise your true skillset with magic to defend yourself.”

 

  “Well, then we make a fine pair.” And Jaina smirks around the rim of her freshly-filled tea mug as the Lady shakes her head in exasperation and turns away.

 

  There’s silence as Jaina continues sipping, broken only by the Lady removing each piece of armour in turn and fastidiously cleaning and polishing it.

 

  “To level with you, you were in a foul mood from this morning,” Jaina chances as the shoulderguards slip off. The Lady shoots her daggers, and utilising her true skillset, Jaina ignores them and continues. “In fact, in spite of how lavish and well-respected the Kul Tiran festivities are, you’re in a foul mood every time Hallow’s End comes around.”

 

  “You mark my moods on your calendar. I’m honoured.” The Lady scrubs at her scuffed chestpiece harder than is strictly necessary, eyebrows tightly pursed. Jaina lets her head fall back against the soft leather chair back. “We will resume lessons when the rain lets-”

 

  “Look, I know you’re never going to tell me why you hate Hallow’s End and why you point blank refuse to attend the fireworks. And I know you’re never going to tell me why you call yourself Dark Lady, and I know you’re never going to tell me why you refuse to go to Quel’Thalas. I’m sure all of those facts are well established within this strange relationship of ours by now.”

 

  The Lady says nothing, simply rips her wet shirt off. Jaina flushes.

 

  “Could you maybe-?”

 

  “You’ve seen it before,” the Lady snaps.

 

  “I don’t like seeing the scar on your shoulder,” Jaina mutters. “It reminds me that I didn’t have the strength to protect you.”

 

  That makes the Lady stop, peering over her shoulder at Jaina with something akin to disbelief. “Fool mage, did you even read the contract I signed?” She straightens and points at herself, resplendent in cloth brassiere and leather leggings and nothing else. “Me: bodyguard. You: person to be guarded.”

 

  There’s a beat of silence, as Jaina tries to repress the laugh bubbling up in her throat. She points to her own chest. “Me: pyroblast wielder. You: piddly arrow wielder.”

 

  The Lady scoffs and turns away, but a split second too late to hide the upward quirk of her lips. “I invite you to see just how piddly my arrows truly are. Insolent mage.”

 

  There hasn’t been a single day since their return to Boralus that Jaina hasn’t been addressed by ‘insolent mage’, ‘fool mage’, ‘bloody-minded mage’. She finds she doesn’t mind it. “Yes, we’ll resume training when the storm finishes up,” she says, and allows her eyes to stray to the Lady’s exposed skin. Her undershirt is clinging to her skin, revealing the delicate details of her breasts beneath. “It sounds like I could use it.”

 

  The Lady nods, still polishing her armour. “Very well,” she says, just as thunder rumbles in the distance and Jaina cringes. “Oh, by the Sunwell… does it ever _not_ rain here?”

 

  “Sometimes it snows.”

 

  The armour is thrown down in a heap as, grumbling under her breath in Thalassian, the Lady flounces out towards her own chambers.

 

  “Don’t you have snow in Quel’Thalas?” Jaina calls after her. “It’s not that scary!”

 

-0-0-

 

  Sylvanas is halfway to her quarters when Lord Admiral Proudmoore rounds the corner and grabs her by the arm.

 

  “Ah, Dark La- oh, I’ve caught you in a state of undress, I am so sorry!”

 

  _What_ are _these humans talking about?_ Sylvanas looks down at herself, at the tight cloth undershirt reaching to just below her breastbone and the still slightly wet leather leggings, then back up at the Lord Admiral. “You have?”

 

  Katherine Proudmoore, most amusingly, has a hand over her eyes. “Please, continue to get dressed,” she says, and waves her other hand towards the door. “I do apologise.”

 

  Stifling a smirk, Sylvanas dodges past her and grabs for a shirt, sliding her feet into the spare boots beside her bed. Elves were never known for being prudes; she suspects Silvermoon’s fashion would be a little bit… outlandish here, on this cold, rainy island.

 

  “You wished to see me, Lord Admiral?”

 

  Katherine peers out past one finger, surveys the shirt and the fresh pair of boots, and removes her hand. “Thank you, Dark Lady… my most sincere apologies. The messenger I received earlier brought the news that the Kirin Tor is expanding again, and part of its expansion is that the University of Dalaran is resuming its teaching, you see.” Pausing, the Lord Admiral steps delicately over the threshold into the little room and stands in the doorway, chewing at her lower lip. “It appears they, and the Silver Hand, and the Cenarion Circle, and more or less every other such organisation on Azeroth, is recruiting again. And Jaina has been invited back to Dalaran to study directly under Antonidas.” Her hands clasp before her. “Thunder Bluff has requested funds for a new barracks. The Echo Isles have relocated civilians to Orgrimmar.”

 

  “So Arthas is returning to his full power,” Sylvanas says, slowly. “And they are… sure of this?”

 

  “Nobody has said as such. But I can read the writing on the wall. Darnassus has halted teleportation on and off Teldrassil, and Ironforge is only allowing gryphon travel. If what Terenas says is true, and the Scourge was powerful enough to seize control of Gilneas-” Katherine lets her head droop. “Kul Tiras is not exempt from his influence. When they started getting onto the Keep’s grounds- I can’t even trace where they’re coming from. And we do not have the military clout Gilneas had. We have tidesages and harbour guards, not warriors.”

 

  Sylvanas frowns, eyes fixed on the elaborate Thalassian tapestry Jaina hung for her one Winter’s Veil. “No. But Gilneas’ military clout was quickly turned against them. And surely given all of this Jaina will, regardless of past events, relish the opportunity to return to Dalaran?” Certainly Sylvanas will. Thunder once again rumbles in the Harbour, and she can’t suppress a shudder at the thought of yet more training sessions in the pouring rain.

 

  Yet the Lord Admiral appears unconvinced. “I’m concerned, Dark Lady. I would have expected Jaina to be raring to go. I’m sure you would?” At Sylvanas’s nod, she continues: “But I advised her to start packing, and she told me… she told me she felt safer here. In Kul Tiras.”

 

  “I can see why she believes that to be right,” Sylvanas says. One hand itches to touch the scar on her shoulder, but she keeps it by her side. “Arthas would not dare attempt an assault himself on the Proudmoore Keep. Any Scourge we see here are, as you say, shots across the bow. Reminders that Arthas is out there, reminders he will be sending to every leader in every capital, but he would not dare risk his own skin on such a hopeless assault, merely his less useful minions. Undeath is not kind to many.” Katherine winces. “Dalaran is filled with every protective enchantment imaginable, reinforced by some more that are reinforced by a few more… but Dalaran is only as secure as the Kirin Tor.”

 

  Katherine’s face falls. On instinct, Sylvanas moves a chair forwards for her, but she waves it away. “Thank you… you truly believe Jaina is his end goal?”

 

  “Arthas is obsessed with Jaina. He uses her name as inspiration, he makes sure to commit his atrocities within spitting distance of her. He would not kill her. Her gifts are, in his eyes, too incredible for that, and he’s right, she is powerful beyond any mage I have ever met beside Khadgar.” Sylvanas pinches the bridge of her nose. “He would not hesitate to slaughter those around her and isolate her enough to turn to him as her final hope.”

 

  “She would never-”

 

  “No, she would not. And therein is why he must never find her again. She will never do as the Jaina he desires would.”

 

  The Lord Admiral sniffs hard, and Sylvanas is alarmed to see tears in her eyes. _Sunwell save me from comforting another Proudmoore!_ “I cannot… I cannot allow her to go the same way as Tandred.”

 

  “She will not,” Sylvanas says. It is not a question. “That will never happen.”

 

  There’s a pause as the two women stare at each other, until eventually Katherine smiles shakily and runs a hand over her face. “Perhaps it would be easier, safer, if she were to study in Quel’Thalas with Lord Regent Theron.”

 

  Shit. That wasn’t how that was supposed to conclude. “Quel’Thalas houses many magi, granted. None to the standard of Archmage Antonidas. Arthas is not shrewd, Lord Admiral, but I doubt he would attack Dalaran twice after the beating he received last time.”

 

  The Lord Admiral nods, clears her throat and straightens her spine. “I suppose it’s down to Jaina now. I would ask you speak with her; she listens to you sooner than she does me.”

 

  Sylvanas blinks, surprised, but the Lord Admiral is already talking again. “Oh, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy some elvish company. A contingent from Quel’Thalas is visiting for our Hallow’s End festivities this evening. We could even be graced with the presence of some of their leadership- Lor’themar Theron has an outstanding invitation here, for one.”

 

  This time, the thunder rumbling outside manages to disguise a sharp intake of breath on Sylvanas’s part. “Thank you for letting me know, Lord Admiral,” she says, in a voice that sounds only half-strangled. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I feel rather naked and must finish getting dressed.”

 

  “Naked? But you’re wearing a shi-”

 

  And within half a second, the Lord Admiral finds herself outside the door as Sylvanas lets her back drop onto the cool wall, squeezes her eyes shut against the thumping in her head.

 

-0-0-

 

_Windrunner Village, Eversong Woods, Eastern Kingdoms- four days after Prince Sunstrider’s assassination_

  A lone figure sprints through the woodland, up and down trees, never slowing, swift as a dragonhawk. One small bag hangs from her shoulder; a blue pendant gleams at her throat. A red cloak flutters behind her, tangling in briar and peacebloom bush as her long legs carry her further and further away from the mob of high elves combing Windrunner Spire from basement to tip.

 

  Only when the beautiful auburn forests of Eversong turn to the lush green of Lordaeron, only when the rooves visible in the distance are brown thatch and clay tile, only when her lungs are screaming with exhaustion and her legs are liquified beneath her does she stop. Slides to the ground, heaving up nothing, shivering on the cool grass in the evening’s dewfall.

 

  The kingdom she cherished and protected with her own blood wishes her dead. Her own sister, her own flesh and blood… her beloved Little Moon, denounces her a traitor. Broken with despair, she curls further against the chill wind, tugs her torn and muddied cloak tighter about her shoulders and lets the tears flow into her scars and set them stinging.

 

  It could have been a moment or even an entire nightfall, but something deep and rumbling suddenly cuts through the roaring in her ears and she peers up into a dark-bearded human’s face. _Who are you? Why are you out here?_ Country Common that she scrambles to understand, rough and rounded, warm in tone. _You’re wounded! Come inside. You must drink, you must eat- come quickly, before you become any colder._

 

  She stumbles into a farmhouse, still clinging to his leather tunic. Finds herself lowered into a chair and presented with a bowl of steaming soup and a mug of water the side of her head. _There now. Take your fill. Why are you running?_

And, swaddled in a thick blanket, curled like a child in a soft plush chair, she tells this perfect stranger in her awkward, lilting Common that her own sister arrived at her door to arrest her.

The next day, as she prepares to walk to Lordaeron and seek safety there, Nathanos Marris walks outside and hands her the reins to a beautiful gelding.

 

  _Not too many oats. She’s prone to rounding out._

 

  On that day, Sylvanas Windrunner swears an oath to herself that if Nathanos Marris should ever want for anything, she should provide it.

 

-0-0-

 

  “What? Where are you going?”

 

  The Dark Lady has her pouch packed already, stood stiffly by the doorway of Jaina’s lodgings. “I have requested some urgent holiday leave while you and your mother enjoy your time with your guests from Silvermoon,” she says, one hand on the case as though she can barely delay herself. “You will be in no immediate danger here. I have been neglecting my duties within the Forsaken and that is something I wish to change.”

 

  “Kinndy can wait, surely,” Jaina says. Some part of her acknowledges her own selfishness, but she quashes it quickly. “The Scourge- they’re here, on Kul Tiras. I need you by my side.”

 

  The Lady’s eyes slide to the floor. “You will be surrounded by the best and brightest of Silvermoon’s military, Miss Proudmoore. I would be superfluous to any defensive needs you may have. Besides- it is for one day only.”

 

  “I had thought you would perhaps meet with old friends. You said you used to be in the military in Silvermoon.”

 

  “The vast majority of elves work within the military at some point in their careers, even magi and priests.” The Lady’s body is strung so taut Jaina fears a bone in her spine may snap. “My stint was short and… unproductive. I will be returning in twenty-four hours, Miss Proudmoore. I am hardly abandoning you.”

 

  “Stop calling me Miss Proudmoore. My training-”

 

  “Will wait until after the festivities have concluded. I will bid you farewell now, _Jaina,_ and return soon.”

 

  Jaina folds her arms and glares at the ground. “Very well,” she says, aware she is acting like a child denied their favourite toy. “Then I hope very much that you enjoy your holiday away from the rain.”

 

  “I may even dry out fully.” Jaina can’t resist a snort of laughter at that. “Enjoy your Hallow’s End, Miss Proudmoore. Shorel’aran.”

 

  “Do you… need a portal? I mean, if you’re not going to Darnassus or Ironforge.”

 

  The Lady glances between Jaina and the mizzle hanging in the air outside. “Lordaeron, if you would be so kind.”

 

  Without looking up from the floor, Jaina conjures the portal. “Al diel shala,” she says, and remains stock still until the spent portal fizzles out beside her.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Lord Admiral, I must say, this is really very marvellous,” the Regent Lord says, in a rich voice that has some of the Kul Tirans around him near swooning. Jaina remains unmoved save for a brief quirk of her lips.

 

  _I’d sooner kiss an elekk’s backside._

“Thank you, Regent Lord,” Katherine beams through her pumpkin mask. “It is rather the holiday we’re known for- much as Lordaeron outdoes itself at Winter’s Veil, and you simply cannot beat Thunder Bluff for a midsummer party. Have you tried the pumpkin savouries? Jaina outdid herself this time.”

 

  Those luminous eyes turn and fix on Jaina, a gentle smile curving the Lord Regent’s lips. “Jaina,” he says, voice full of warmth. “How wonderful to see you again. Katherine tells me you have been working occasionally with Modera here in Boralus.”

 

  “Yes, Modera and my bodyguard.” Jaina plasters on a fake beam; in the corner of her eye, her mother’s grin falters. “And how is business going in Silvermoon?”

 

  “Yes, yes… not too shabby, as you say here in Kul Tiras. Tell me about this training of yours.” Beside him, Grand Magister Rommath turns and picks up a pumpkin pastry, one long ear swivelled towards her, just the way the Dark Lady’s does. His eyes linger for a moment too long on the neckline of her dress. “Physical training must be a difficult art for one used to wielding spells.”

 

  “I’m improving,” Jaina says evenly, resisting the urge to fold her arms. “I have an excellent teacher.”

 

  “What a shame she isn’t here,” Rommath says, sidling forwards. “Katherine mentioned you were being trained by a high elf, but I assumed she meant a member of the Kirin Tor. So, a ranger?”

 

  “Yes, she was a ranger. She had a personal errand to run, said she was meeting an old friend for the Hallow’s End festivities.” There’s something in Rommath’s gaze that unnerves her, something in the way he looks her from top to toe, and she turns back to her mother. “I’m just heading outside for a time. I’ll be back for the tidesages’ display. Enjoy the fireworks.”

 

  And Jaina bolts for the safety of the Keep gardens.

 

  The air is crisp and cool, sending her skin into goosebumps as she huddles beside the sparring area she once so loathed. She’s lost count of how many high elves have eyed her today, smiled invitingly and lifted glasses of alcohol intended for her. How many have bowed or curtseyed deeper to her than to any other human, even her mother; even Rommath, who would certainly make a powerful political marriage partner, seems to be edging closer at every opportunity. Thank the arcane that Lor’themar doesn’t seem to have such inclinations.

 

  So many beautiful high elves, high cheekbones, warm blue eyes, tall and slender and nary a scar in sight. And yet. Jaina can’t deny to herself that the reason she ceased to hate sparring with the animosity she once did is an awful lot to do with the close proximity to another high elf, a reassuring and powerful presence… an enigma, of course, and one that keeps Jaina up at night wondering, but an enigma who stood between Jaina and a necromancer and fought like a cornered nightsaber. Who returned to Jaina’s side with a bandaged torso and a grimace but began training her immediately regardless. Who has witnessed every one of Jaina’s downfalls and foibles and remained steadfast. Is it even about money now? She’s had plenty of chance to find pastures greener. Jaina is left with the belief that there is something, however tenuous, keeping her here.

 

  In the window behind her, Rommath is graciously excusing himself from his company, bowing deeply as he’s creating a portal for himself. Jaina narrows her eyes. _Going so soon, Grand Magister?_

A part of her is glad. Rommath is handsome, of course- he’s an elf- but not the kind to turn Jaina’s head. Her skin tingles as the burst of arcane energy is released and idly, she grabs hold of one of the threads of spellwork and examines it-

 

  Stormwind. Jaina’s eyes flick to the enormous clock on the Keep’s spire. The perfect opportunity to sneak away under the pretence of a quiet invitation to diplomacy… and miss the fireworks that take her straight back to that moment in Silvermoon.

 

-0-0-

 

  “What do you mean, he’s _disappeared?_ ”

 

  Kinndy waves a hand across the table, sending Hearthstone cards scattering across it. “Said he was going to Stormwind, then never showed up there. You… you know Arthas has been getting stronger, you know this has been happening across Azeroth, he’s preparing for something and that’s why Antonidas is calling students back to the university. He’s-”

 

  “I know he’s preparing for war. I know we all are.” Sylvanas clenches her fists by her sides. “Fool. Fucking fool of a corpse. At least he did it when I could excuse myself from duties. I’ll send him back to the grave myself… he’s the only one who knows the exact location of this Naxxramas, if it even exists.” She lets her head fall back and takes a long, deep breath. “Kinndy, perhaps you could create a portal for me. He might still be in Stormwind, he might be… on the cusp. We might have a chance.”

 

  “You think?” The corners of Kinndy’s mouth turn down. “I don’t.”

 

  “I don’t either. Tell the rest of the Forsaken to stay put in Lordaeron.” She waits for Kinndy’s sad gaze to meet hers before continuing. “If we’re right, the Scourge will be bringing the fight to us sooner rather than later… no use wasting our resources and time on expeditions. Now. Stormwind.”

 

  Attempting a smile, Kinndy tilts her head. “Where’s your usual portal mistress, then?”

 

  “Perhaps if you weren’t so small, you’d be able to sight her back in Kul Tiras, Kinndy.”

 

  “I’ll bite your ankles. So, where is she?”

 

  “I can’t bring her _here!_ She’s Kul Tiran royalty!”

 

  Kinndy shrugs. “Sure we’ve got a few royals in here. Look, over there, the young Greymane girl fled here a few weeks ago. Besides, it’s just a busy tavern house, right?”

 

  Grinding her teeth, Sylvanas glares at the dark-haired girl sipping miserably at a glass of Northshire cider. “A portal, Kinndy. Please. I will pay you.”

 

  “Alright, don’t get your chainmail in a twist. And keep your gold. It’s my Forsaken duty to aid the Banshee.” Kinndy hops down from the table and begins casting. “I’m heading back to Dalaran anyway. Seems an old friend might have been able to pull some strings for me within the Kirin Tor.”

 

  “Good luck,” Sylvanas says, and spares Kinndy the ghost of a smile before she steps through the portal and joins the rabble of festival-goers in Stormwind.

 

-0-0-

 

  Five minutes later and Kinndy has had enough. The only tolerable company (in truth, the only intelligent conversation) in the tavern is now the Greymane girl, and she’s two sheets to the wind as it is. Bidding her goodnight and slipping the innkeeper some shiny pieces to make sure she gets upstairs alright, Kinndy heads out into the crisp city air and trundles down past the city centre and its seething mass of party attendees.

 

  She treks back to the inn she rents when she’s meeting with Sylvanas and the Forsaken, packs up her belongings, humming under her breath. The Kirin Tor have been somewhat more understanding of the plights of those who failed their initiation since their ranks were halved by Arthas. The Forsaken will benefit greatly from having one of their number join the Kirin Tor. It would make the city safe and accessible once again.

 

  Hopping down the stairs, Kinndy tugs her coin purse from her belt and slaps a few gold onto the counter, startling the elderly attendant awake. “My thanks,” she chirps, and wanders outside before he can count her monies and realise she’s left him six silver short.

 

  “That’s for the lantern oil you never provided,” she calls over one shoulder, and pays no heed to the grumbling as she steps to the usual side of the doorway and begins to cast-

 

  A hand slams into her chest and pins her against the wall, the other wrapping around her throat as Kinndy screeches and squirms and fires arcane bolts at every inch of the figure she can see past its delicate yet strong fingers but it’s no use, her lungs are screaming at her, she can’t struggle any harder as her eyes roll up in her head and her arms fall limp at her sides.

 

-0-0-

 

  Slumping down on a bench in King’s Rest, Sylvanas lets her head fall into her hands. Nathanos is nowhere. Vanished into the ether. He could have made his new home in the Twisting Nether, but she knows in her gut that Arthas has found him too. Just as he has found all those brave souls who clawed their freedom from him.

 

  Of course he was never essential for their scouting mission, and never privy to the Forsaken’s more delicate information due to his- vulnerability- but Sylvanas has a duty to those she protects and he is one.

 

  Staring up at the sky, she lets her gaze grow distant. “Perhaps duty is for fools,” she says, to nobody in particular. After so long spent speaking Common from morning ‘til night, articulating sentences in Thalassian feels clumsy on her tongue. “Sunwell knows I am one.” She sharpens her focus, searching through the sky, combing the night for a star that bit brighter than any other. “Where are you, Lady Sun? You and that paladin you set yourself upon? Poor wretch. No doubt he ran screaming for the next planet he saw.”

 

  She jumps a little as a great roar rises from the crowd in the Trade District. “We had the best firework parties in Quel’Thalas,” she murmurs. “We would shoot arrows through the fiery rings. A point for she who hit the target on the other side.” One hand slides over her shoulder and feels idly through her quiver. Which of these arrows must she put through Nathanos’s forehead?

 

  _BANG!_ She leaps up with bow drawn, breathing heavily. A colourful pinwheel explodes into bright fragments high above the crowd.

 

  “Those fools have started the fireworks early,” she hisses. “Incompetent pathetic nobles of Storm-”

 

  _BANG!_

 

  _You think Menethil’s forces are here? Today?_

 

  She sinks back down, hands shaking on her taut bowstring. Her legs ache to run but refuse to move. “Stop, you wretch. It is done. It is over. This is not Silvermoon.” Gathering herself frantically, she forces herself to stumble towards the boarded-up apothecary. Any shelter, away from the-

 

  _BANG!_

Her bow clatters to the ground as both hands wrap around her head, teeth gritted so tightly they hurt. She is a fool, leaving herself vulnerable to attack, but the panic is rising faster than she can contain it, heart pounding frantically against her chest.

 

  _BANG!_

_It’s not Major Orion-Paude, it’s an anagram for-_

 

  A hand touches hers and Sylvanas shoves hard on pure instinct, sending the creature skittering away with a shout as she fumbles her bow up off the ground and nocks an arrow to point straight at-

 

  Jaina, crumpled on the floor.

 

  “What are you doing here?” Sylvanas snaps, fist white-knuckled around the grip. “Did you follow me?”

 

  “I- no.” There’s confusion in Jaina’s pale face, and hurt. Something in Sylvanas’s gut twists. “I’m sorry. Grand Magister Rommath teleported here… I needed an excuse to leave for a time, so I followed him.”

 

  Sylvanas goes deathly still. “Rommath is here?” she says, slowly.

 

  Jaina nods, struggling up; Sylvanas leans forwards and helps her to her feet. “Does he know you are here? Has he seen you?”

 

  “I don’t think so,” Jaina murmurs. “He left very quickly. I can’t think why.”

 

  _BANG!_ Jaina jumps almost as hard as Sylvanas does with the ferocity of the next display.

 

  “I so loathe Stormwind,” Sylvanas hisses through her teeth, skin clammy, nausea rising in her throat. “They cannot do anything on schedule-”

 

  Jaina raises her hands and Sylvanas’s vision flashes purple as she feels her back come to rest against a tree trunk. Somewhere to her left, a stream is trickling along. The leaves tickling her face are soft and cool, the air unsullied by fire smoke, mushy earth replacing worn cobblestones beneath her feet.

 

  “We’re in Elwynn Forest,” Jaina says, quietly. “I don’t think you were enjoying the fireworks.”

 

  Sylvanas takes a deep breath. “No,” she says, and draws herself up to her full height. “Can Rommath trace us here?”

 

  “Probably not. I took us briefly back to Kul Tiras and Orgrimmar as practice. He’d probably expect us to be returning home.” Jaina peers under Sylvanas’s hood, eyes wide. “Why? Do you know him?”

 

  “He is an arrogant fool and one I am glad I never have to suffer again,” Sylvanas snaps. Was this Rommath’s wretched opportunism, seeking to exploit an opening he found to get closer to Jaina- or had he become privy to information about herself? “Thank you for your spellwork, Jaina. I suppose my holiday leave is cancelled.”

 

  “Was it something that happened to you in the military?”

 

  Snarling, Sylvanas turns on her heel and marches away; Jaina’s footsteps crunch through the leaves behind her. “I’m sorry! I forgot you never tell me anything about yourself! But I hope you can understand that I’m a little concerned as to why my bodyguard was-”

 

  “Was merely cold,” Sylvanas growls. “I am not afraid. The matter is closed.”

 

  There’s silence for a moment, until Jaina speaks again, voice strong through the cold air. “So you know him? Rommath?”

 

  “He knows most every elf. I am not special.” Elwynn is bitterly cold without the braziers of Stormwind to heat it, and on instinct Sylvanas turns to ensure Jaina is keeping herself warm. “Fasten your cloak, fool mage. It is cold enough to freeze an elekk solid.”

 

  Jaina simply raises her eyebrows. “You’re still shivering.”

 

  “My point,” Sylvanas hisses, “is you will quickly become frostbitten. Do as I say or teleport back to Boralus.” Her trembling has nothing to do with the icy wind, but the adrenaline pumping through her might be involved.

 

  Pursing her lips, Jaina wraps her cloak tightly about her shoulders.

 

  “Where are we going?” she eventually asks, glancing towards the lights of Goldshire off to their left. “You wanted to reach… Goldshire Village? It’s barely a settlement. The only people who live here are farmers and the innkeeper’s family… and it’s not a reputable inn.”

 

  “I have no destination in mind,” Sylvanas grits out. “I am walking to walk. You, on the other hand, had a choice and chose to follow like a lost puppy.”

 

  “You know, I don’t think you’ve been in this foul a mood since-”

 

  Jaina’s cut off by her foot giving way beneath her and Sylvanas dives to brace her charge’s body against her own as she pitches forwards; Jaina whines with the pain from her ankle, hands tangled in vice grips in Sylvanas’s coat. “Shit!”

 

  As carefully as she can, Sylvanas supports her down into a sitting position and touches a finger to the swollen joint. “Not broken. You’ll be fine. Find a healer when you get back to Boralus.”

 

  “You say that like you’re not coming,” Jaina says, carefully, hands still scrunched in Sylvanas’s clothes. Sylvanas doesn’t have to look up to know she’s eyeing her.

 

  “Do not be ridiculous, fool mage. You need to return immediately to prevent your mother sending a search party. In spite of your efforts, I have a good eighteen hours of holiday remaining. I intend to spend it on my own. Without company. Of any sort.”

 

  “I hate the fireworks too.”

 

  Sylvanas pauses. Tilts her head up towards Jaina, who scratches one wind-reddened cheek and smiles sheepishly. “Ever since Ar- he attacked Silvermoon, I’ve hated loud noises of any sort. Mother had the great bell in the house taken down because it would send me into a panic if it rang.”

 

  “You make such a point of attending the ceremony,” Sylvanas says slowly. She should be panicking that Rommath is nearby, or searching for any last desperate way to free Nathanos. But Jaina has a way of making Sylvanas forget her duties to the outside world. “I had always assumed you enjoyed it.”

 

  “I’m the Lord Admiral’s daughter, of course I have to attend. I take peacebloom beforehand to keep myself from crying.”

 

  Sylvanas’s brow furrows and she looks down, hand still on Jaina’s leg. “I never noticed,” she says quietly.

 

  “I noticed you avoiding them. Every year. You’re… not subtle.” Sylvanas snorts. “But you never talk about things that happened to you, so I never asked.”

 

  “An amenable relationship we have.”

 

  “Tell me this one thing,” Jaina says, and her young voice is strong and earnest. “Tell me why you hate them. I won’t ask you anything else personal for a very, very long time.”

 

  Resigned, Sylvanas takes a deep breath. As hard as she tries, she cannot meet Jaina’s gaze. “You are right in assuming it stems from my time in the military,” she says to the grass and Jaina’s ankle. “I was guiding a… procession. It came under attack, magical attack. I was unable to save one of the people within the procession.” Jaina makes a low noise of sympathy, deep in her throat. “And that is all there is to it. You were young when Kael’thas was assassinated, but I have no excuse, I am many hundreds of years older than you.”

 

  “I’m sorry,” Jaina says, reaching out and touching Sylvanas’s hand on her own leg, encircling it tighter than Sylvanas had expected. “I’m so sorry.”

 

  “Do not feel sympathy for me. I failed to do my job, my duty to my people. Feel sympathy for Silvermoon, if you must.” Jaina’s hand over her own starts to swim in her vision and Sylvanas blinks desperately. “I should not have delegated my duties to other people. I should have carried them out myself, the day before.”

 

  “Why didn’t you?”

 

  A lump rises in Sylvanas’s throat. “It was the anniversary of… a break-up. I thought I could trust others to carry out my orders. It was selfish of me.”

 

  Her eyes begin to sting, and she jumps to her feet, tugging Jaina up with her; Jaina sways a little, hissing through her teeth as she tries to put weight on her bad ankle. “Don’t stand on it. Just teleport us somewhere we can find you a healer and keep you warm.”

 

  Jaina salutes and begins working the spell together. “I was a mess when I broke up with Ar- him,” she says, almost to herself, even though her face is smushed against Sylvanas’s arm so she can keep her balance. “Even though I instigated it. Probably for the best. Long distance relationships and men with major homicidal tendencies are… well, I’d rather just study.”

 

  And in spite of herself, Sylvanas smiles.

 

-0-0-

 

  Slowly, head throbbing, Kinndy opens her eyes.

 

  Wards. Around her. People, talking in low voices on the other side of the room. An orc who seems vaguely familiar. A human, somewhere, sat watching her. Closest of all, a high elf whose scarlet eyes are gleaming in her direction.

 

  “Sylvanas?” she groans.

 

  “That’s sweet,” the high elf says, and her voice is hollow, touched by the grave. “You think she would come to your aid.”

 

  Kinndy keeps her eyes half-closed, concentrating hard on analysing the magical barriers pressing hard against her own power. They’re amateurish. Clumsy, as though the caster had also failed their Kirin Tor exams… but not for the same reason Kinndy had. “I know she would,” she says evenly.

 

  “Sylvanas has bigger fish to fry than you, gnome.” The orc’s sepulchral voice grates in Kinndy’s ears. “Give it a… hmm, a few minutes. She’ll be too busy fighting for Proudmoore’s life to come running after you.”

 

  “I admire your confidence.” Gritting her teeth against the pain, Kinndy snatches on to one loose weave of spellwork and frantically combs it for anything she can exploit.

 

  The elf stalks forwards, those bright red eyes boring holes in Kinndy’s skull. “As I do yours. I wouldn’t worry too hard, gnome. Our Master made sure Dranosh set up a distraction for your Banshee. He will be arriving back soon, then your use will become obvious.”

 

  All she needs is a chink of something. The tiniest exploit she can use to her advantage. “I’m sure he makes a persuasive argument,” she mutters.

 

  The elf’s lips stretch into a thin, gaunt smile. “You have no idea,” she says.

 

  The orc grunts. “Thyala, you shouldn’t concern yourself. She will soon.”

 

  Kinndy unravels something dark and necromantic in nature and the entire spell dissolves for the briefest of seconds, snatching itself back together again but not before she can glimpse a way out. “Kidnapping people rarely makes them very open to your arguments, you know,” she says, fingers already burning as she twists the malicious spell above her. “Tends to make them a little less keen on you.”

 

  “Then don’t think of it as kidnapping,” the elf shrugs. “Think of it as assisted conversion.”

 

  And she turns away for the split second Kinndy needs to teleport to Boralus.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Why- are you- so heavy- fool mage?”

 

  “It’s the gown. Mother has… elegant taste.” Jaina, arms draped around slender elven shoulders, smiles sheepishly into the Dark Lady’s shoulder as long elven legs stumble towards the main road into Boralus. “I don’t know why I keep ending up in that spot, it’s only the crab fishing spot Mother and I visit during Pilgrim’s Bounty.”

 

  “The gardens of Proudmoore Keep would have been an acceptable substitute,” the Dark Lady growls out, jolting Jaina up to get a more secure grip on her. “Or, failing that- ow!- a starvation diet.”

 

  “Nothing wrong with my figure,” Jaina huffs. “Maybe you should try a look besides _ethereal waif_.”

 

  “Elves are naturally- _owmindmyhair! -_ slim. Impudent mage.” Finally finding an old stone bench beside the road, the Lady gently lowers Jaina down and collapses beside her, chest heaving. “Why are you not creating a portal as I speak?”

 

  “What, you wish to arrive back in Tradewinds Market in the middle of the fireworks?”

 

  The Lady opens, then shuts her mouth, and leans silently back into the bench. No sooner has she stilled than the sky behind her is filled with dim flashes and the rumble of the crowd cheering along drowns out the crickets’ chirping.

 

  Jaina carefully twists her injured ankle and sucks air in through her teeth to convince the Dark Lady it is truly as severe as she claimed it was. There is something… titillating… about being carried by her, but Jaina cannot be too obvious about it. “So your type is slim, then?” she says, allowing just a glimmer of playfulness into the words. “Slim and willowy, with… mmm, I’d guess long hair down his back.”

 

  “My _type._ ” The Lady’s nose wrinkles at the word. “Fortunately for me, you have missed the mark. Start casting. Your mother will be anxious for you to rush back to your gathering. Think of all those potential suitors waiting for the radiant Miss Proudmoore.”

 

  “You think I’m radiant?”

 

  “I think you are an irritating busybody with more skill than common sense. But I imagine you are, to humans, attractive.” The Lady turns her head just far enough to glower at Jaina. “If you don’t start casting-”

 

  “So I was wrong with slim and willowy, and long hair,” Jaina teases. Her hands are already working at the spell, but no harm in drawing it out a little. “Hmm… do _human_ men perhaps have a look in?”

 

  “No. Cast faster.”

 

  “I admit, I’m surprised if you’re keener on dwarves. The beards are very off-putting And goblins are so… shrill. And green.”

 

  “Miss Proudmoore, get us to Boralus this second or the only type you will be seeing for many years will be the healer type,” the Lady snaps.

 

  Grinning, Jaina flicks her wrist and the pair materialises in the courtyard at Proudmoore Keep. “There,” she says, “happy now?”

 

  “No,” the Lady says as her eyes blow wide. “Not at all.”

 

  And Jaina feels rotting breath on her neck.

 

-0-0-

 

  Kinndy’s racing as fast as her legs can carry her, through the thronging crowds applauding the beautiful displays she has barely even glanced at. Sylvanas. She needs to warn Sylvanas. Needs to tell them where the next target-

 

  “ATTACK! ATTACK!”

 

  And the enormous bell atop Proudmoore Keep beings ringing as the crowds shriek and flee for cover.

 

  _No!_ Kinndy grits her teeth, forces herself to blink and blink and blink forwards until she’s dizzy and nauseous but the great gates rush by in the corner of her vision and she casts a hurried and clumsy scry that directs her forwards and through a corridor and past two panicking guards through into-

 

  On force of sheer instinct she flings arcane missiles at the closest undead, who drops like a puppet with severed strings to reveal Sylvanas and Jaina Proudmoore fighting back to back and she charges towards them on legs that feel as insubstantial as paper and casts a feeble, brittle shield around them.

 

  Sylvanas’s eyes swerve to her and she drops her bow for the split second it takes to get Kinndy inside the shield, snatching it up in the next moment to fill a rotted creature with arrows and Jaina’s head turns at the sound of screaming from beyond the Keep’s central area, the fireball in her hand fizzling into embers.

 

  “Keep casting, Jaina,” Sylvanas calls. “Strike them down.”

 

  “My people,” Jaina murmurs. She casts a great nova of ice, but the undead merely tug their feet free and continue marching forwards. “Dark Lady-”

 

  “The sooner we destroy these fiends, the sooner you can help them!” And, in a gesture that sends Kinndy’s eyebrows shooting up beneath her fringe, Sylvanas twists round and squeezes Jaina’s hand tightly. “Try a fire nova,” she says, and no sooner have the words left her lips than the undead screech as their legs erupt into flames.

 

  Kinndy wobbles. Somewhere, in her peripheral vision, a Proudmoore guard shouts a victory cry. She lets herself fall down and, silently, nausea rising in her throat, grabs hold of the something left of Proudmoore’s spell. _Three hundred yards! There will be nothing left of the Scourge!_ And yet, as she lets her head drop onto the cool soil and turns it to one side, the buildings around her are perfectly unscathed. Only the decomposed bodies still smouldering and howling tell of Jaina’s attack.

 

  A hand drops onto her arm, and Kinndy stares up into a scarred high elf face. “Sylv,” she gets out, and promptly faints.

 

-0-0-

 

  “How did you…?” The Dark Lady, carrying the pink-haired gnome that Jaina vaguely recognises as Kinndy Sparkshine, turns her head this way and that as she observes what is left of the undead. Jaina’s face flushes a little.

 

  “I don’t really know,” she admits. “I didn’t think- I didn’t think that would work.” She’s loathe to tell the Lady how she struggled, mid-spell, to keep the cast from firebombing the inner rooms of the Keep itself; she needs a lot more tutoring with Modera before she can control it entirely, and the small plume of smoke rising from one of the rooms surprises her little as she rushes to put out the budding fire. “I suppose… desperation makes my casts a little stronger,” she calls as she pours icy water over the charred furniture.

 

  She cannot tell the Dark Lady that so much of her desperation stemmed from protecting that lithe back against hers, flexing again and again as corpses dropped like flies with her arrows in their heads.

 

  “You don’t say. Your talent is quite incredible. Even your ankle healed unnaturally fast.” Jaina flushes, turning her head away. “Now go, find your mother, I will deal with this.” The Lady spares her one of those rare smiles, and rushes to find a healer.

 

  Jaina nods to herself, turns and surveys the smouldering limbs splayed across her sparring area. Forces her feet to carry her away. Flags a guard down in an attempt to find her mother.

 

  _Silv_ , the gnome had said. She resolves to think more on it later, as she and her mother finally make eye contact and sprint across the road to hug each other fiercely.

 

-0-0-

 

  Muddied, battered, and chilled inside and out, Sylvanas trudges up the steps to Proudmoore Keep. Kinndy, though well in body, had a new nervousness to her that pained Sylvanas deeply as she relayed her experience in Lordaeron, relaying disturbing developments that Jaina could not and would not hear about. The further deception sits as unpleasantly as the implications of- that elf’s- involvement in Sylvanas’s gut.

 

  Strange, when the girl could not even know her name. _But that is for her own protection. And mine._

 

  She straightens her spine to disguise her weariness and nods to the guard by the Keep entrance, who salutes and opens the door for her. “Most exciting Hallow’s End I’ve ever worked,” he says, and motions to his charred boots. “The Lord Admiral had to declare Boralus will pay back those guards who lost socks and shoes to her daughter’s fire nova.”

 

  In spite of herself, Sylvanas barks out a laugh. “Miss Jaina rather excelled herself tonight.” When she first worked here, on this rainy island, it confused her how the people were so oddly cheerful in the face of danger; how quick Jaina could be to make humour from the hay-cart crash as the wheels still spun in the undergrowth. It would confuse or horrify most elves, yet it appeals greatly to Sylvanas’s own slightly twisted taste. “Perhaps it will assure any dissenters that mutiny is not a good option.”

 

  “Only those who really want to be fried like cuttlefish by their commander.”

 

  “I had thought it was high elves who had the reputation for such perverted proclivities?”

 

  “You’ve nothing on humans, my Lady. ‘Tis the weather. The moment the coats come off, we’re quite insane.”

 

  She shakes her head, but the quirk of the lips betrays her. “As you were.”

 

  The man, chuckling to himself, salutes and tugs the door closed behind her.

 

  Jaina and her mother are deep in conversation in Katherine’s study, low voices rumbling as she passes by to her own chambers, and she sees no need to disturb them. The hallway rug beneath her feet is charred and curled at the edges, and she kicks it to one side as she nudges her door open and lets it bang shut behind her to wordlessly inform Jaina she is no longer to be disturbed.

 

  A fire is already lit in the grate, a small platter of smoked and cured meats beside it. With a fond smile that she would never allow the impudent mage herself to see, she lifts a piece of folded paper from the plate and unravels it to Jaina’s scrawling script.

 

  _Thought you would be hungry, having managed to miss every feast in every city we visited. Oh, and I lit the fire as well. Apparently I’m turning into a pyromaniac._

_Thank you for your aid today. I hope Kinndy is well enough to visit tomorrow._

_Your fool mage_

“Fool mage indeed,” she murmurs through a mouthful of bristleboar meat. “Fool mage so powerful Khadgar is trembling in his boots.”

 

  Folding the paper once more, she turns around-

 

  A hand slaps over her face before she can scream as alcohol-scented breath touches her shoulder. “Don’t move, Windrunner.”

 

  She squirms beneath the hard grip, kicking and writhing as mana bindings pin her legs together and stretch around her wrists and still she fights them and the elaborately-robed arm around her stomach. “I said, do not move.” The bindings tighten cruelly and she hisses into the palm over her mouth, reluctantly stilling. “Better.”

 

  Heart thumping against her ribcage, Sylvanas twists her head far enough to catch a glimpse of indigo hair. _High elf. Silvermoon noble’s robes._ “Who do you think I am?” she growls into the hand.

 

  “I’m not here to play games, Sylvanas. I saw you with Proudmoore in Stormwind. Lost the trail after your portal, but… my instinct led me here.”

 

  “Rommath.” Nausea rises in her throat. “So now what?”

 

  “Lor’themar would be so grateful, were I to capture such a high-profile prisoner. Take one of Arthas’s most powerful players out of the picture, as it were.” The arm across her belly vanishes and Sylvanas glares as Rommath, carefully keeping his hand in place over her mouth, walks forward to study her like one of his insufferable arcane experiments. “Especially given his new rise to power.”

 

  “You do not frighten me,” she grits out. “You never did.”

 

  “A bold statement from the woman trussed like a Winter’s Veil bird.”

 

  She opens her mouth wider and sinks her fangs into Rommath’s hand.

 

  “Vicious wretch!” He leaps back, clutching his hand, blood dripping down his wrist. “Clearly working with humans has made you just as barbaric as they.”

 

  “If you truly wanted me incarcerated in Silvermoon, you would have teleported us by now. Why did you stalk me here, Rommath?”

 

  Rommath hums to himself, turning slowly on one heel and observing the Thalassian tapestry. “Jaina is very fond of you,” he says, rubbing his hand on his robes. “She would be incredibly disappointed to find she had been harbouring a traitor. And- no less than the self same traitor who allowed Arthas into Silvermoon.”

 

  “I maintain my innocence, you insufferable fool.”

 

  “Your tongue has not dulled. But, regardless, Sylvanas- I believe you.”

 

  There’s a beat of silence.

 

  “You do?” She scrutinises him, eyes narrowed, blood-tinged fangs bared. “Why?”

 

  “I know that Thyala Dawnbloom facilitated Arthas’s entry into Silvermoon and told your sister it was your direct command that compelled her to do so.” Rommath turns glowing yellow eyes on her. “I know that Dar’khan Drathir then verified her tale.”

 

  “Thyala Dawnbloom is now an agent of the Scourge.”

 

  “Yes. Her word should count for nothing now. Drathir, on the other hand?” A slow smile curls Rommath’s mouth. “He is influential. He has the ear of your sister.”

 

  “She is no sister of mine. I care little for her opinion,” Sylvanas snaps.

 

  “How cutting, Sylvanas.” Rommath straightens, glares down at her. “Her boys so miss you.”

 

  “Do not appeal to my softer side, Rommath, it calcified long ago.”

 

  “Ah, now I know that to be false. Your fondness for Proudmoore betrays you.”

 

  “You have overdone it on the arcwine.”

 

  “That I have.” Rommath takes a step forwards. “How would she feel if I were to tell her about her precious Dark Lady?”

 

  “You are a brave man, to risk disappointing Jaina Proudmoore. That three hundred step fire nova would surely catch even your fleet foot.”

 

  “You are more useful here.” Sylvanas blinks, taken aback, but the man is already speaking again. “Lor’themar is also useful- a useful fool. He stands as the face of Silvermoon while I control its people. Know that I have you where I want you, Sylvanas. If I contact you- you do as I say. Then we will not have to risk Proudmoore’s displeasure. I do believe capital punishment still exists here on Kul Tiras, does it not?” She turns her head away. “Katherine Proudmoore is a formidable foe. I’m sure I don’t have to tell _you_ that.”

 

  “So I wait at your heels like a dog for instructions,” Sylvanas hisses. “Now I see why you were so useless an officer. You could not boost the morale of a rock.”

 

  “How quickly you forget the night before Kael’thas died. I was useful enough to fuck you into oblivion as you cried for your pathetic sister.”

 

  Sylvanas’s face turns a deep shade of red. “Worst fuck of my life,” she spits.

 

  The _crack_ of Rommath striking her face echoes through the room. “You were so pretty once, Sylvanas,” he snarls. “Your human girl might like them scarred and gaunt, but I have no use for you besides what meagre intelligence you can provide me. I would not break a sweat disposing of you.” He grabs her arm and tugs her forwards, other hand snaking up her body until it rests over the blue pendant around her neck. “And then your sister would have only Vereesa to come home to, and her tales of your treachery.”

 

  “She is welcome to her. Be gone, cretin. And if you must contact me- send a messenger, that I do not have to endure the sight of you again.”

 

  “You are hardly important enough to warrant my visit now,” Rommath snaps. “You certainly have no redeeming beauty for this trip to the back of nowhere.” He raises his hand to her cheek again, and she refuses to give him the satisfaction of flinching away as his thumb brushes over the scars that still ache and sting. “Once such a radiant creature, were you not?”

 

  “Clearly I was overconfident if you were the best lay I could find.”

 

  He makes a noise of disgust and shoves her away. “You have a use. Perform it.” And he raises his hands and is gone.

 

  The arcane bonds dissolve, leaving Sylvanas stood beside the crackling fire, staring unfocussed into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the apologies for how long this update took- but soon we will be getting to the proper Sylvaina, as Sylvanas realises that she will have to come clean with Jaina. (And as Jaina admits that her type is absolutely elves. One in particular.)
> 
> Also: I made the decision to portray both Jaina and Sylvanas suffering years after the events of Silvermoon. I know that in canon our Banshee Queen is the toughest of the tough, but maybe she wasn't like that in life, and this Sylvanas is very much alive... for the time being, anyway.
> 
> Many thanks for reading if you made it this far, and any and all feedback is appreciated. :)


	6. In Which Jaina and Sylvanas Realise They Should Be Afraid

  _Silvermoon City, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms- the next day_

Rommath looks like the cat who got the cream this morning. Lor’themar has no clue why, as he flicks through report after report of Scourge activity, the names of fallen elves, increasingly desperate missives from Ranger-General Windrunner and pleas for help from other cities- but he does. “The civilians of Fairbreeze Village have evacuated,” he says quietly to nobody in particular. “Only the stubborn and foolhardy remain alongside the forces who now base themselves there. Kul Tiras reported an attack on Proudmoore Keep last night, Grommash Hold was reduced to rubble by Scourge forces in Orgrimmar, Stormwind lost twenty-eight City Guard to a surprise attack from their own graveyard, and- and all this is quite without the concerns we’ve been hearing from Silverpine Forest.” He looks up and meets the eyes of Kael’thas’s painting, staring solemnly down from the wall. “My prince, any time you wish to come back to life, you may do so.”

 

  “I believe further co-operation with the Kul Tirans would be a good start,” Rommath says. “The Lord Admiral is quite the tactician.”

 

  “Further co-operation with Jaina Proudmoore, you mean?” Rommath has the good grace to flush slightly. “Time was, I believed Quel’Thalas derived strength from our scattered people, our many stalwarts. Now I realise we are woefully weak and fattened by peace.” Lor’themar pinches the bridge of his nose. “Would that we could gorge ourselves on harmony some more.” The door at the back of the room bursts open. “Vereesa, thank the Sunwell you’re here.”

 

  The Ranger-General does not even bother acknowledging Rommath’s presence, marching straight up to Lor’themar and slamming a folded piece of parchment onto his desk. “It’s hopeless. I need three times the rangers I have. Lordaeron is slow to respond to our messages and terrified of threats from Gilneas. Stormwind is all but useless- all I have are ten score rangers, a smattering of Feathermoon’s sentinels, Runetotem’s druids and Liadrin’s paladins, and though I grant you they are terrifying in their power, they cannot stand against what we have seen.”

 

  Lor’themar leans forwards. “What have you seen?”

 

  “My scout Kelmarin found them breaching the pass from Lordaeron to Eversong. He has desecrated our graveyards,” Vereesa bites out, and all sound in the room ceases abruptly. Lor’themar closes his eyes. “Our dead walk once again. Stitched-together creatures the size of eight elves. Those intact enough wield blades with terrifying accuracy.” Tears spring into her eyes, and she turns away. “One of our magi was killed by one who had been her equal in the Kirin Tor. Now they both serve Arthas with deadly precision.”

 

  “I’m sorry,” Lor’themar breathes.

 

  “Why do they march on Quel’Thalas? What does Arthas hope to get from us?” Vereesa casts around, at the ornate decorations on the walls, the tapestry rug, the clustered elves clinging to each other. “More fresh bodies?”

 

  “He will have none.” Lor’themar’s voice is little more than a snarl. Face white, he stands, unfolding the paper and glaring down at it. “Four encampments.”

 

  “That we know of.”

 

  “All on ancient burial grounds.”

 

  “Of which we have six.” Vereesa’s finger slams down on the parchment. “The next is directly beside Fairbreeze Village. My hope is they think the other too far to the south-west, but we’ve evacuated the entire area regardless. We have an advantage in the river turning Fairbreeze into a funnel- there is only one bridge.” She holds a hand up to forestall Lor’themar’s next question. “The Kirin Tor’s wards yet hold up and even if they fell, I have never met the sorcerer who could teleport thousands in one fell swoop. They will come by foot. But why are they coming here?”

 

  “The Sunwell,” Rommath says from the side of the room, as though it were obvious.

 

  Lor’themar turns to him, eyebrows tightly pursed. “Last time, Arthas did not even attempt to fight his way to the Sunwell. His target was Kael’thas. Why would he seek to destroy us for it now?”

 

  “I suppose you would have to ask him.” Rommath tugs the cork from a bottle of arcwine and begins pouring himself a generous amount; one hand bears a small bloodstained bandage. “But I would sooner put an ice lance through his brain than quiz him on the intricacies of his war campaign against the living.” He slams the goblet down and glugs directly from the bottle instead. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from your sister recently, Ranger General?”

 

  “Rommath, hold your tongue. The Ranger General is not here to be quizzed on matters so private,” Lor’themar snaps. “Take your wine and leave.”

 

  “You know Alleria is lost,” Vereesa says, slowly. “And Sylvanas is… gone.”

 

  “My apologies, Regent Lord, Ranger-General. No offence intended- merely concern. I will return to my chambers and start recalling our magi from Dalaran.”

 

  “You truly believe he is here for the Sunwell?” Lor’themar’s voice rings almost too loud in the room full of silent, horrified elves. “That is your belief? What do you base it on?”

 

  Rommath turns back. “I can think of no other reason, Regent Lord. It is our most valuable asset.” His eyes turn dark. “If he were here for a kingdom, fool prince, he would have stayed in Lordaeron.”

 

  Lor’themar takes a deep breath. “Go and recall the magi. The rest of you- find your families and take those who cannot fight to Quel’Danas. Do it now.”

 

  The Grand Magister bows and marches out, closely followed by the rest of the elves, muttering rapidly amongst themselves.

 

  “Why would he ask after- her?” Vereesa’s drawn face is full of anger. “He must know-”

 

  “Rommath is a friend, but a friend known for his oafish tongue. But as we stand here in private… have you heard from Sylvanas since?”

 

  “You know what she stands accused of,” Vereesa says, warily.

 

  “I am very sure. But she remains your sister.”

 

  Vereesa takes a deep breath. “I won’t lie and say I have not searched, but if she’s still out there she hides her tracks as well as I remember. Only once have I thought I glimpsed her, the day Arthas attacked Dalaran.” She finally meets Lor’themar’s eyes again, and he winces at the deep well of pain in them. “But if it were her staring at me, she was gone the next second.” She shakes her head and draws her cloak closer around her. “Would that Alleria had been here for her, she might not have fallen to corruption… I can trust so few here now.”

 

  “Regent Lord?” They both turn to an elegantly-attired elf, bowing deeply. “You called.”

 

  “Dar’khan, thank you for your swift arrival.” Lor’themar pretends not to notice Rommath sliding back into the room, eyes fixed on Drathir, though he spares a moment to wish whatever argument they had had could be settled finally. “Come, I would run some strategies by you.”

 

  Dar’khan nods solemnly. “Of course, Regent Lord.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _Proudmoore Keep, Boralus, Kul Tiras- the next day_

“Pivot your foot as you move. Your legs are not wooden.”

 

  “I did!”

 

  “Then pivot it more.”

 

  “And snap my ankle?”

 

  “Do as I say and your feeble attempts at parrying may, one day, succeed to deflect some dismal, half-hearted attack. Now put some effort into it or I will give in my notice and wash my hands of you and this wretched island.”

 

  Jaina flings her blade down into the wet grass of their temporary sparring area and folds her arms. “You have been foul this training session. Kinndy passed her Kirin Tor exams and only a few Scourge have been reported all day. No need to talk to me like that.”

 

  “You faced an enemy in the courtyard of your own home yesterday. You did not face a battlefield. Our foe is recruiting faster than you humans can breed. If you cannot take criticism, and learn instead of pointlessly chiding me, my time here is null and void.” The Lady turns and stalks back towards the Keep.

 

  “Criticism? Your words are more suited to a playground bully than a combat trainer.”

 

  “You think I am a bully?” The Lady turns slowly, an inscrutable look on her face. “Perhaps you are right, or perhaps your own abilities are so lacking, you cannot reconcile them with your mother’s insistence of your incredible precociousness.”

 

  Jaina raises a hand and the Lady shrieks as she is trapped within a block of ice.

 

  “I’m utilising my skillset!” she shouts as the furious woman struggles. “I thought you’d be proud. So precocious, aren’t I?”

 

  “Get this thing off me _now_ or the next body I fill with arrows will be yours,” the Lady shouts, face ruddy with anger beneath her hood.

 

  “What is _wrong_ with you today? Kinndy’s safe in Dalaran, you get to leave this ‘rainy, dull island’, I thought you’d be happy. Or is it something a little more personal?” Jaina takes a step forwards, hands on her hips. “The Scourge grow in strength every minute and you storm off in a temper tantrum- during what could be essential training- because you’re embarrassed that I saw you scared of fireworks… yesterday we stood back to back and defended Kul Tiras as one. That’s the sort of bodyguard I thought I’d hired.” She flicks a finger and the ice dissolves into vapours. “That’s not the sort of woman I think you are.”

 

  “Your confidence is touching. You do not know the first thing about me, Jaina Proudmoore.”

 

  “Don’t challenge me. You won’t like the outcome.”

 

  The Lady snorts and waves a dismissive hand. “If your detective skills are as feeble as your parrying, I am unconcerned.”

 

  The red mist rises in Jaina’s vision; the Lady moves back a step as she snatches her weapon back up. “When we’re finished here, you’re relieved of your duties for the day,” she snarls. “Do not leave Kul Tiras or your contract is void.”

 

  “You do not control my every movement, Proudmoore.”

 

  “Are you trying to make me fire you?” Frost grows around her fingers, itching to unleash itself. “You _want_ me to find another bodyguard?”

 

  “If I am so callous and cruel, it is a wonder you have not done so already,” the Lady hisses, fangs bared. Jaina clenches her fists. “Find someone in Dalaran who will spill all their little secrets to you as they fight abominations at your side. I am tired of being cross-examined. If that is what you want: go ahead.”

 

  Jaina blinks. The Lady’s eyes fix on the gate leading into Boralus, mouth set tight. “You are not irreplaceable. You know that.”

 

  “And you are not the first to remind me of that.”

 

  She throws her arm out with frustration and a firebolt thuds into a pile of hay beside the stable block, sending it exploding into flames; the Lady jerks back, hood tipping off her head. “Fuck’s sake. You’re not irreplaceable, but you are entirely impossible. Why _have_ I put up with you all this time?”

 

  “A mystery. Perhaps you grew too used to foolish company with Arthas.” The Lady stares down her nose at Jaina, features cast into sharp relief by the firelight.

 

  _How has this gone so wrong?_ Jaina bites the inside of her mouth to stop the tears rising, staring at the Lady’s cold, closed-off face. _I don’t want to lose you. Especially not now. Please stop doing this to me, please just- wait._

 

  The Lady’s eyes widen a little as Jaina steps forwards and reaches a hand out. “What- do not presume to touch-”

 

  “Why is your cheek swollen?”

 

  She takes a step backwards as Jaina strides towards her, pulling herself to her full height. Crimson eyes flick left and right and she tries to dodge to one side only for Jaina to grab her arm with both hands. “Get off-”

 

  “Someone hit you.” It’s not a question. Hand trembling with something between fury and fear, Jaina carefully, gently runs her fingertips along the bruised and split skin, the vaguely hand-shaped blotch over the Lady’s delicate features. “I didn’t notice it past your hood. When did this happen?”

 

  “You are seeing things.”

 

  “I certainly am. Tell me when this happened.” Crimson eyes meet hers, narrowed to slits, as Jaina lets her hand slip down the Lady’s arm and hold tight to her hand. “You weren’t injured after the fight in the courtyard. This happened after you visited Kinndy.”

 

  “A drunk in Tradewinds. Why am I answering your questions? I assumed I was relieved of my duties,” she spits. Yet she does not even attempt to pull her hand free.

 

  “I haven’t dismissed you yet. Tradewinds was shut down after the Scourge attack. The Harbour Guard reported to my mother personally to verify that. Besides, we had no drunks admitted to the healers with arrows in their backsides.”

 

  “One of your guards mistook me for Scourge.”

 

  “No. Commander Crestfall would have informed my mother of any such incidents. You claim to respect me enough to tell me the truth.” Jaina holds the woman’s gaze until her uninjured cheek flushes and her eyes slide away, fingers curling into a fist beneath Jaina’s grip. “Tell me what happened.”

 

  The Lady growls in the back of her throat. “It was a mere misunderstanding.”

 

  “That improves it little.”

 

  “It was one of the guests from Silvermoon. They mistook me for a criminal. I kept quiet so as not to create a diplomatic incident.” The Lady finally tugs her hand free and folds her arms. “Now are you content?”

 

  “No. Lor’themar Theron should have better control over those he invites to foreign lands. He cannot allow them to injure complete strangers on a whim, and especially not those directly employed by House Proudmoore!”

 

  “Leave it alone, Jaina. Lor’themar has bigger problems than one foolish elf. We all do now.” The defeat in the Lady’s voice makes Jaina’s stomach clench.

 

  When she was younger, Jaina would hear her elders speak of the _sense of the sea_. Many believed it exclusive to Kul Tiras and the odd seafaring Gilnean, but all used it to mean a feeling, an instinct that could not quite be pinpointed, that did not quite let itself make sense. At the time, she herself had dismissed it as folk tales and old legends; what use did magi have for such feelings when they possessed hard knowledge, a plethora of tomes, and the arcane? But as time passed, and Jaina began to realise that the people of Azeroth did not behave as the people in her books did, she began to allow her own sense of the sea to develop and tune itself. Not that it always served her well; in fact her ‘sense’ that her mother was sweet on one of the groundskeepers had only resulted in blushes all round. But it is wailing like a boat-horn now, watching the Lady reach up and gently tug Jaina’s hand away from her cheek, the fury on her face long given way to a downturned mouth and heavy, morose eyes.

 

  A frown creasing her forehead, Jaina gathers her courage, prays the Lady isn’t carrying a dagger, and pulls her in for a hug.

 

  She is stiff as wood in her arms, yet Jaina’s eyes flick down as one strong arm allows itself to drape around her waist. “What was the delegate’s name?” she asks into the stiff shoulder armour. “I promise not to ice block them… for too long.”

 

  The Lady sighs, deeply. “Grand Magister Rommath.”

 

  “Lor’themar’s chief advisor?” Jaina jerks backwards with shock, teeth bared. “But why would he hit you? And why would he- hit- you? He’s one of the most accomplished magi on Azeroth, surely he is capable of using arcane bindings like Antonidas?”

 

  “I do not know nor wish to understand what goes on within that fool’s feeble mind,” the Lady mutters. “Perhaps I startled him.”

 

  “Rommath left before the Scourge attack. Why would he return?”

 

  “Why are you asking me?” The Lady’s forehead creases. “I am not a Grand Magister. Nor a fool.”

 

  “Well, what was he doing?”

 

  “Hitting me in the face.”

 

  “Before that part.”

 

  “Turning around and lifting his hand to hit me in the face.”

 

  Jaina snuffles a smile, tears stinging her eyes. One hand runs down the Lady's body (she refuses to acknowledge the thrill it sends racing through her chest) to pull with a gentle pressure on her hip and she reluctantly steps forwards, bends her neck a little to allow Jaina to explore the split lip and purpled skin with a careful thumb. “I will speak with Lor’themar and inform him what Rommath did to my own personal bodyguard… my own friend.” She feels relief swell in her chest as the Lady’s face softens at the word. _Friend._ “That is unacceptable, no matter who the delegate is.”

 

  “Do not waste your breath. Lor’themar is too busy defending Silvermoon to reprehend one rash diplomat.” The Lady exhales hard through her nose as Jaina reaches round and gently, a soft thrill running through her chest at her own daring, brushes her silvery blonde hair behind her neck. “It was but a slap. My face has weathered worse.”

 

  “Why did you not come to me? Why protect him? You could skewer Rommath from fifty yards and he would never know what had happened.”

 

  “What a tempting proposition. You freeze his feet to the ground, and I shoot him somewhere the sun does not shine.” The crimson eyes flick round to Jaina, and she’s shocked to see sadness in them. Guilt. “I spoke out of turn. I was angry… as I am most of the time… but my impudence and rudeness warrants an apology.”

 

  Jaina lifts her hand from the Lady’s hip and slides it down her arm until it is tucked tightly in the Lady’s long fingers, the other still wrapped around the slim elven waist. “Your apology will not suffice.”

 

  Confused, the Lady glances down at their conjoined hands. “No?”

 

  “Dark Lady, if you wish to apologise to me for overstepping the mark, then the phrase to use is _I am so fucking sorry._ None of this flowery nonsense your elven academy has no doubt drilled into you.”

 

  There’s a moment of silence, then the Dark Lady lets her head fall back and laughs aloud. “You have learned too much, Jaina Proudmoore.”

 

  “Perhaps I have. My tutor is clearly skilled.”

 

  The Lady lifts Jaina’s hand to her mouth and gives it a swift, fleeting kiss that sends Jaina’s stomach into freefall. “I admit, in your place, I would have sent myself running from an ice blizzard powerful enough to chase me halfway to Teldrassil.”

 

  _Kissing isn’t such a loaded gesture for elves as it is for humans. That must be it. She doesn’t realise humans have such romantic connotations for a kiss on the hand._ Jaina forces herself to take a breath and shakes her head, eyes flicking almost involuntarily from the red eyes to the pink lips still hovering by her own knuckles. “If I had truly wished to fire you, Dark Lady, that blizzard would have chased you to Teldrassil and back.”

 

  “And back?”

 

  “We do have a dungeon, you know.”

 

  The Lady’s eyebrows shoot up. “I… don’t believe I did know that.”

 

  “I can understand why Mother might not mention it. It became rather infamous for aiding in staff relations.” Jaina coughs delicately, suddenly very aware that they are stood a breath’s width from each other, and oh so reluctantly tugs her hands away from the Dark Lady, who abruptly lets go and clasps her own fingers behind her back. “Well… shall we try? Oh shit- sparring! I meant shall we try sparring!”

 

  The Lady smirks. In mirth, her face looks younger; Jaina presumes her own is as red as a ravenberry tart. “I have a better idea. This we can do indoors. Not what your filthy mind might be thinking, Miss Proudmoore- but I do believe you mentioned arcane bindings.”

 

  “My mother was right about high elves. Such perverse proclivities.”

 

  Crimson eyes narrow dangerously, yet a hint of a smile still plays about her lips. “And at what point did I say you could practise on me?”

 

  “You want me to bind myself?”

 

  “My mother was right about humans.” The Lady’s grin widens. “Such perverse proclivities.”

 

  She turns, but has barely made it a step back to the house before Jaina catches her arm once again. “I will insist on speaking to Lor’themar. I will not have a woman who- works so hard for me and for House Proudmoore- treated like a target dummy by anyone, Grand Magister or no.”

 

  “Jaina, I would pay my year’s salary to watch you turn him into a sheep. Unfortunately, that truly would be a diplomatic incident. We have more important matters at hand.”

 

  “Promise me one thing.”

 

  She begins walking back towards the Keep, and the Lady falls naturally into step beside her. “If something is troubling you, be it a Grand Magister or a fishmonger or even an apprentice mage you happen to know, I would be grateful to hear. Not as your employer, or as the woman you protect, but… as your companion of sorts. Will you promise me that?” And she holds out her little finger, to a look of total confusion from the Lady. “Oh- it’s a human tradition of sorts. Link your smallest finger with mine. That indicates a promise made.”

 

  “A peculiar and nonsensical tradition. How befitting for humans.” But Jaina grins with triumph as the Lady reaches round and wraps her own bow-calloused finger around Jaina’s. “A promise made. Now, before you conjure any further ridiculous gestures- to the library.”

 

-0-0-

 

  It was that irritating _fondness_ in Jaina’s gaze that did it.

 

  This morning, Sylvanas woke with a throbbing face and a cold lump in her stomach that no roaring fire could penetrate. Rommath had got too close. She had been careless in her self-absorption- a mistake she could not afford to repeat- and he, loathsome beast that he was, had slithered into Boralus and muzzled her. Taking her notice to Katherine Proudmoore at such a time would have been met with confusion, accusations of cowardice and more likely than not, a refusal.

 

  So Sylvanas had downed a half bottle of cheap rum and directed her venom and hatred to the one woman who had extended friendship beyond expectation to her. And Jaina’s threat had been the perfect tactical answer: be expelled from Kul Tiras and vanish once again into the depths of Lordaeron, leaving Rommath deprived of his prize weapon, Sylvanas deprived of Jaina, and Jaina removed from Rommath’s grimy grasp. The Ranger-General still left in her had wondered at how easy Jaina had made her retreat.

 

  But of course that was too simple for a Proudmoore.

 

  The same Jaina who already has a tome opened on the table, running a slender finger down the index, the tip of her tongue sticking out between her lips. “I’ll start on a small object, a table leg or perhaps a lamp,” she says, tugging her hair to one side of her head and braiding it even as her eyes devour the page. “It’s a little complex, to make the bindings the right mixture of strong and elastic. It would be very easy to snap your target’s wrists or ankles.”

 

  Sylvanas rubs her own arm. Rommath was none too gentle. “Much would depend on your enemy, I’m sure,” she says. “A human would not have the strength of an orc or a troll, but their joints would be narrower and this would make escaping easier.”

 

  Jaina glances up, lips curling into a smile. “You’re ahead of me. If- if I get this right, maybe I could use it to tie more than one person. Maybe I could tie multiple people or bind them together so they cannot move.”

 

  “Speaking like a tactician. But first bind the table legs.”

 

  Ultimately, it is her own fault. She could not goad Jaina into making good on her threat because she, as much as it sickens her to admit, is alone. Sylvanas has not given thought to relations of any sort in a long time- and what happened with Rommath was less relations and more a sticky, emotionally-charged mess- yet without knowing Jaina has taken Sylvanas’s resolve to refuse all offers of companionship, crumpled it into a ball and pyroblasted it to Zandalar.

 

  Her hand curls into fists beneath her cloak. She will not be a slave to anyone. She will not allow Rommath to frighten her from this place, and from the woman she has grown to-

 

  A squeak makes Sylvanas’s head jerk up, to the sight of Jaina struggling to balance with her ankles tightly tied. “I didn’t expect it to actually work,” she yelps.

 

  “The brightest mage of her generation,” Sylvanas smirks, and slides round the table to balance Jaina as she finally explodes the bindings into fluffy violet puffs. “You are doing little to prove my suspicions about human tastes wrong.”

 

  “Ah, we can’t let the elves have all the fun, can we?”

 

  And thus the footman who arrives at the door finds them pressed together with grins on their faces, the Dark Lady’s hand on Miss Proudmoore’s hip and Miss Proudmoore’s head against the Dark Lady’s shoulder.

 

  Jaina is the first to spot him, jerking forwards; the Lady drops her hand as though it were branding her, just as Jaina runs her fingers through her hair, gets them tangled in the hasty braid, and smiles sheepishly at him. “Hello? Anything the matter?”

 

  “There is a messenger from Quel’Thalas, Lady Proudmoore. And your mother has called for you as well.” The man’s eyes slide from one to the other, poker face firmly in place. “A matter of some urgency.”

 

  Jaina turns and exchanges looks with the Lady. “I’ll meet your messenger. Tell my mother I will be along soon,” she says to the Lady, who simply nods and strides out. “Where is this elf?”

 

-0-0-

 

  _Darnassus, Teldrassil, Eastern Kingdoms_

“Mother Moon guide me,” Tyrande Whisperwind murmurs. “Guide me, to guide my people.”

 

  Shandris Feathermoon shuffles forward and backwards, one hand on her glaive, the other on her blade. It is the sixteenth such utterance Tyrande has made, and still no light flickers from the moonwell to show their goddess’s presence. “Guide me to guide my blade to Menethil’s throat,” Shandris says, and Malfurion bows his head.

 

  “Would that it was that simple, thero’shan.” Tyrande’s hands are tightly clasped. Her head bends further, anxiously awaiting the answer of her goddess, chewing on her lip as her ears swivel this way and that. “She aids another. We must simply be patient.”

 

  “She aids another as you, her high priestess, calls?”

 

  “Do not question the Mother Moon when you do not know what she does,” Tyrande mutters.

 

  “You might do well to question her when she arrives, shan’do. I have found her extremely neglectful of late.” The fact that Tyrande says nothing in response to Shandris betrays her own discomfort. “It is not only your priestesses who have thought so.”

 

  “I am aware of the problems within the Cenarion Circle.” Tyrande sighs, turns to her husband; Malfurion’s face is dark with anxiety, eyes flitting between his wife and Shandris’s agitated fingers on her glaive. “Malfurion has been clear with those druids that their duty is upholding balance. The Mother Moon does not take complaints like some goblin bank.”

 

  More minutes pass. Shandris relents and flops to the ground, watches in silence as the water of the moonwell shimmers and bubbles. She only moves when a tear slides down Tyrande’s face, abandoning her weapons on the stone floor and rushing to wipe it away. “Min’da, I spoke out of turn, you must not fret-”

 

  “No, my dear Shandris. I will fret. She does not come.” Tyrande turns tired eyes on her. Even the moonstones of her priestess’s garb do not glow with the intensity she recalls. “She will not answer my prayer. I… do not understand.”

 

  “This must be to do with Arthas.” Malfurion’s voice is a low growl. “What he is doing is unnatural. It is perverse to nature just as the fel is. “

 

  “You are quick to assume, husband. How could Arthas sever the connection between the kal’dorei and their goddess? He is not a titan, nor is he a god, save for in his own imagination.” Tyrande silently bends and picks her prayer mat up. “Shandris, my daughter, come with me. Malfurion, gather the Cenarion Circle once again.”

 

  “Can the kal’dorei not stand on our own two feet, Min’da?” Shandris keeps her voice at a whisper. “Do we require Elune’s aid?”

 

  “I will not abandon my goddess, nor the safety she provides for my people.”

 

  “She abandons you.”

 

  Tyrande turns her head away. “Then we discover why. And if she truly wishes to see us cut down, after we have honoured her for ten thousand years-” Her hands clench into fists at her sides. “Then we will fight her too.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _Proudmoore Keep, Boralus, Kul Tiras- as Tyrande and Shandris seek a mage_

 

  The elven messenger straightens his spine as Jaina approaches, clad in the shimmery fabric of the Silvermoon nobility, long blond hair tied in an elegant ponytail. Yet another fastidious elf. Jaina is starting to think Quel’Thalas never runs out of them.

 

  “Bal’a dash, Lady Proudmoore. I’m afraid the message is not for you, it is for your bodyguard. Perhaps I could-”

 

  “For my bodyguard? How irregular. Is this message you bring from Grand Magister Rommath?” The hairs on the back of Jaina’s neck are standing on end. “And addressed directly to the Lady?”

 

  The elf blinks. “It is indeed, my Lady. Why would-”

 

  The word that Jaina hisses makes a passing Admiralty captain flush red and stumble into a puddle. “You can inform him that if he wishes to speak to the Lady again, he can come here himself, and he can bring Lor’themar with him to hear his apology too.” Jaina steps forwards; the elf moves back, eyes wide. “Relations with Quel’Thalas are, as it stands, very cordial. That can change. Very quickly.”

 

  “Lady Proudmoore, the Grand Magister has done nothing but extend the hand of friendship to Kul Tiras!”

 

  “He has extended a hand to something. There will not be another attempt to contact her again and I am offended that he tried.” She draws herself up and glares at the unfortunate elf. “You have not introduced yourself.”

 

  “Dar’khan Drathir. I am a personal advisor to Regent Lord Lor’themar Theron.” The elf bows so deeply as to have a good view of her knees. “Anar’alah, my deepest apologies for any offence Silvermoon has caused, Lady Proudmoore. I will relay your message to the Regent Lord and to the Grand Magister.”

 

  “I will speak to the Regent Lord myself, I have sentiments to convey personally,” Jaina snaps. “But tell the Grand Magister he will not enjoy the consequences of any further communication. Thank you, Dar’khan Drathir. Al diel shala.”

 

  Another obsequious bow, and Dar’khan teleports away.

 

  Jaina stands, breathing hard. Turning back towards the Keep door, she catches a glimpse of the fierce scowl on her own face in the glass, teeth bared and shoulders taut as a bowstring. _Am I truly so fierce in her defence? A three hundred step fire nova, and snarling like a wild hog?_

 

  “Mustn’t keep Mother waiting,” she says to herself, and forces herself to take a deep lungful of the sea air before she walks back inside.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Valley of Strength, Orgrimmar, Durotar, Kalimdor- a few seconds later_

 

  “FALL BACK!” Baine Bloodhoof’s voice roars above the seething mass of combat, limbs and gore flying as tauren and trolls hack the undead charging them to pieces. “We must find a chokepoint!” he hollers in Taur’aje. “Squeeze them until they explode!”

 

  “Chokepoint? We be needin’ a miracle,” Vol’jin growls, splintering two ghouls with his blades and swerving round to obliterate a third on the downstroke. “Why they be attackin’ here?”

 

  “There must be a limit to their numbers,” Baine pants. He cranes round for Cairne by the front gate, wiping the blood from his muzzle; his father catches his gaze and the look they exchange tells a thousand words. “Yet still they come,” he grits out, and hefts his axe again.

 

  A piercing scream signals another living combatant down. “Burn her!” Baine shouts. A human mage swerves to immolate the tauren in her death throes and leaps back to pyroblast a charging line of death knights; Vol’jin darts forwards and barrels into the abomination swinging at her from behind, hacking and slashing at its face and the creature howls as its eyes splatter beneath the assault, arms and hooks swinging mercilessly and impaling any unfortunate enough to stand in its range as it thuds to the ground and twitches its last. “Burn that too!”

 

  “Dat was ten times worse dan the last attack, mon.” Vol’jin slaps a hand over the thick cut on his arm. “How he be gettin’ so many corpses?”

 

  “Most races do not burn their dead,” Baine snarls, just as the guards at the gate screech a warning cry. “That’s how.”

 

  Swearing under his breath, Vol’jin rushes forwards into the fray once again, blades a mere gleam in the sun as he slashes through necks and chests and splits open rotting torsos to spill steaming guts across the floor of the Valley and as Cairne tips his head back and hollers a war cry, Baine snatches his own weapon up and charges headlong for the closest death knight, sending its runeblade flying into the air with the arm still attached as the death knight swerves and snarls at the sudden loss-

 

  And every undead in the Valley of Strength crumples as one.

 

  “What-?” Baine, cradling his gore-spattered axe, swerves round. Vol’jin drops to a crouch, glaring at the corpses, weapon drawn. His father is marching towards the entrance to the city with a band of blood-soaked tauren flanking him. He gingerly kicks the nearest death knight, to no response. “What is this? It must be an ambush. Vol’jin, it must be!”

 

  “I hear ya, mon,” Vol’jin grits out. His eyes never leave the corpse at his feet. “I hear ya. Stay here.”

 

  Baine straightens. Healers are rushing onto the battlefield, a small group of shaman stepping up to destroy the bodies. One hoof on the rubble of Grommash Hold, Baine puts a hand to his heart and thanks the Earthmother for seeing all but a handful of his people safely through the battle. _Please grant those we lost your blessings, wise mother._

 

  “Do we have any idea of our losses?” he says in a low voice as Vol’jin finally stands and shakes the grime and blood from his skin. “I would guess they were… mostly civilians. Caught by surprise.”

 

  Vol’jin jerks his head down. “Mostly traders. Some workin’ on clearing the rubble from the Hold.” Baine’s stomach is seized by a cold grip. “Gallywix not gonna be pleased when he hears how many goblins.”

 

  The air before them shimmers in the split second before an unusually ruffled and frantic high elf appears with a piece of parchment and stumbles towards the pair on trembling legs.

 

  “Eversong Woods is overrun,” she gabbles before Baine can even step forwards. “The Scourge march on Fairbreeze Village- death knights by their thousands- they have siege weaponry marching alongside them- what happened here?”

 

  “It was a distraction!” Baine roars. “Arthas seeks to turn our gazes inwards!” He throws his blade down to the ground and stomps in frustration. “Vol’jin- we abandon Orgrimmar. Send everyone to the Echo Isles or Theramore. Just do it!” he interrupts as Vol’jin opens his mouth. “He will find precious few corpses here.”

 

  “You goin’ to wait for your father to return before you issue these orders?”

 

  “I cannot. Every body who can hold a blade- they will go to Eversong Woods. Those who cannot will retreat for training. We have no choice! We cannot let Silvermoon fall!” He tugs a water skin from his belt and proffers it to the high elf, who stares unseeingly for a moment before her hand reaches up almost of its own accord. “Drink that. Then go to Darkshore. Gather the night elves and their forces before you go to Ironforge. We end this now- in Quel’Thalas, if we must.”

 

  “There are so many,” the high elf says, in a voice that sounds a thousand steps away. “Arthas rides a horse of bones. His sword slit my brother from his navel to his throat.”

 

  Vol’jin’s eyes narrow. “We do the same to him,” he growls.

 

  The elf pushes the water skin back into Baine’s hand and is gone in a lilac flash.

 

  “If dey lose Fairbreeze…” Vol’jin glances at Baine. Neither man has the stomach to say the rest.

 

  “They will not,” Baine says, and hefts his weapon again. “We respond as one. Peace may have fattened us, Vol’jin, but a well-fed kodo flattens keeps when they charge.”

 

  “I hope you right, mon,” is all Vol’jin says.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Proudmoore Keep, Boralus, Kul Tiras- moments later_

“Fairbreeze Village?”

 

  Katherine nods. A Kirin Tor mage stands beside her, face bleak. “Arthas’s forces march on the bridge as we speak,” she says. “There has been no contact with the Ranger-General for some time-”

 

  The Dark Lady makes a strangled noise, and Jaina turns to watch the blood drain from her face. “The Ranger-General marches on Fairbreeze?” she barks.

 

  “As far as we can tell. Her mage was killed. He’s been using the attacks on Orgrimmar and Stormwind as distractions while he amassed death knights.” The mage closes her eyes and mutters a hopeless prayer to the Light. “All forces are being rushed to Quel’Thalas.”

 

  “Of course.” Katherine runs to the window and shoves it open. “Call Commander Crestfall here now!” she shouts at the guards clustered around a brazier; they sprint away as one. “We have five units ready to go at any moment.”

 

  Jaina slides out of her chair and moves towards the perfectly still body of the Dark Lady, staring at nothing. “Are you alright?” she murmurs.

 

  “As perfectly fine as I can be when that filthy man-child marches on my homeland,” the Lady hisses, swerving and marching out of the room and down to her own quarters; Jaina pauses only to scribble a quick note to leave on her mother’s desk before following her, watching as the Lady grabs her battered knapsack and begins throwing clothing and weapons, the sound of barely-organised chaos from the troops in the courtyard already filtering through the walls.

 

  “But surely there is still time to fend him off- as I remember, Eversong is a large area, one that would take days to traverse on foot?”

 

  “Fairbreeze Village hosts that bastard’s only hope of crossing without magical means. His next step would be to slaughter the Kirin Tor and raise them.” One hand suddenly moves to her quiver and ruffles through the mass of arrows within. “I hope these are the right size to fill his eye socket.”

 

  Jaina glances over her shoulder, back towards her mother’s office. “I will be going,” she says quietly.

 

  “Are you insane? This is not a few ghouls in the courtyard, this is an army of death knights- your talent is considerable, Jaina, but this is _war_.” The Lady follows Jaina’s gaze. “She has lost two children already. Imagine her grief if you- no, Jaina, this is not your battle.”

 

  “I am no delicate maiden!”

 

  “I am under no illusions as to what you are! And I have no doubt you will be first in line to defend your homeland. Quel’Thalas is my homeland. The choice is not mine. I swore to defend it and now I will.” Jaina feels her eyes burn, the Lady’s face swimming in front of her. “You have no reason to be upset. Azeroth itself mobilises. There are many vendettas against Arthas that will be settled soon.”

 

  _Including yours, Dark Lady? Whatever it truly is?_ “I am part of Azeroth,” Jaina says, slowly. “And I am of age.”

 

  “Tell me you will not follow me.” The Lady’s eyes bore into Jaina’s skull. “Tell me you will not.”

 

  “But-”

 

  “ _Tell me._ ” And the Dark Lady, crimson eyes piercing into Jaina’s, extends her little finger. “Promise me.”

 

  Tears now rolling down her cheeks, Jaina swallows. “And what if you get hurt? What do I do then?”

 

  “Go to Dalaran and find a new bodyguard.”

 

  “You say that like it’s that simple,” Jaina whispers. Her eyes flick to the ornate Thalassian tapestry, to the red-hooded Farstrider with an ornate bow standing proud amidst the glory of Eversong Woods. “It’s not that simple at all.”

 

  “You said it yourself, Miss Proudmoore. I am not irreplaceable and you are not the first to tell me so-”

 

  “Do not hold the falsehoods I say in anger against me,” Jaina hisses.

 

  The Lady’s eyes widen, just a little, in the split second before she schools her face into the same impassive visage and looks down at her hand. “Promise me, Jaina.”

 

  Jaina follows her gaze. Even in the gloom of Proudmoore Keep, she can see it is trembling a little. “Alright. I will do as you ask.” And she twines her own finger around it, squeezing as tightly as she can. “I will not follow you.”

 

  The Lady exhales a long, deep breath. “Thank you, Jaina.”

 

  “Because I will get there first,” Jaina says, and vanishes in a lilac shimmer.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Fairbreeze Village, Eversong Woods, Quel’Thalas- just as Sylvanas feels herself being teleported_

“Where is Kelmarin?” Vereesa storms out of the hastily-erected tent frothing with generals and commanders, wiping dust from her face. Fairbreeze has fallen from the great majesty of Eversong (even she, a Windrunner, admits as such) to little more than a glorified garrison, with troops and weaponry and armourers rushing here and there like headless chickens and soldiers seemingly falling out of every window into the throng of the central square. And yet, for the crush of bodies, she cannot find a single scout. “Kelmarin! Anybody? High elf, red hair, so tall?”

 

  Only the holler of a tauren armourer answers her. Huffing, disquiet curling in her stomach, Vereesa turns and stalks towards what was the florist's, now the base of Halduron Brightwing and his gaggle of rangers. “Kelmarin?” she barks.

 

  “Due back,” is all Halduron says.

 

  Vereesa’s stomach clenches. “Speak, then. Anything to report?”

 

  “He is not the first not to return, but we yet hold out hope for him and the others.” Halduron’s eyes narrow. “I have seen the Scourge’s advance, and I know they seek to approach the Elrendar by tomorrow. But their progress is slow.” His hand clenches on the grip of his sword. “Some Scourge remain in Tirisfal, out of sight of Lordaeron. What they have found there, I cannot say. I set eyes upon Arthas- he approaches us, but he regularly pauses and speaks to… well, to his sword, as it happens. What he speaks of, I can only guess. Probably murder.”

 

  “His sword?”

 

  Halduron glances round. “Yes. Did you not tell me once, that Sylvanas studied such magics briefly in Storm-”

 

  Vereesa’s hand closes around his throat before he can complete the word. “My apologies, Ranger-General,” he whispers. “Not helpful.”

 

  She shoves him backwards, breathing hard, and folds her arms. “Nobody has ever spoken to me of it. It matters little! His army does not depend upon his sword. Do you observe any weaknesses in his forces?”

 

  “Weaknesses?” Halduron, massaging his neck, snorts. “They are skeletons. War machines, powered by Sunwell knows what. Our weakness is our flesh and our beating hearts. But at the same time- they are slow and unskilled, and those intact enough to retain what they had in life are clumsy and uncoordinated. Regardless. Hand to hand combat will be a last resort.”

 

  “No more ground scouts. We have a handful of the Wildhammer dwarves here- find them out and task them with tracking the Scourge. Send the druids too.” She tugs the tied sheaf of paper that serves as a book of tactics from her belt and flips impatiently through it. “Could they have a fleet? The Isle of Quel’Danas is guarded, but not as heavily as I would like.”

 

  “We’ve no evidence of that.” Halduron’s fist clenches around his sword’s hilt. “But many of the magi are there regardless. We will know if they attack.”

 

  “How?”

 

  “The wards around Quel’Thalas will shatter,” he says bluntly.

 

  “Fuck. At least we’ll know quickly. The Kirin Tor?”

 

  “Who do you think those magi are? We filled a field with our dead after Arthas’s last attack, Vereesa-”

 

  “I signed off their bodies,” Vereesa snaps. Puts a hand to her forehead. “Split them. Bring half here. Leave the most powerful on Quel’Danas.” She shoves her book towards him; he takes it in both hands, staring at it as though it were a ticking goblin bomb. “You’ve worked with the Wildhammer dwarves before, I need a map showing me where their aerial attacks will be most effective.”

 

  “Yes, of course.”

 

  Vereesa, pinching the bridge of her nose, turns away only to slam face-first into her husband’s chest. “Rhonin! Thank the Sunwell you’re here. Where’s Kurdran Wildhammer?”

 

  “The dwarves have taken over the bakery. Said it smelled nice.” Rhonin smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “The boys are in Darnassus. They are safe.”

 

  “Thank you,” Vereesa murmurs. She allows herself to cup his cheek, thumb rubbing over his spiky stubble. “I appreciate it.”

 

  “Vereesa?”

 

  “Halduron.” She reluctantly drops her hand back to her side, turning back to the ranger, whose eyes remain glued on the pages to the back of her- “Give that here!”

 

  “You’ve been interviewing Farstriders about Sylvanas?” Halduron jumps backwards, the book held open at its last few pages as Vereesa barges into him and snatches at it. “Documenting where she was the day before-”

 

  The book flies across the room into Rhonin’s hand. “This is not the time, Halduron,” he growls. “Save your petty prying for after we have defeated Arthas.”

 

  Halduron’s eyes narrow, trained on Vereesa. “You are working with a traitor!”

 

  “I am impressed at my own ability to conspire with a woman I have not seen in four years,” Vereesa snaps.

 

  “Do you know where she is?”

 

  “Which part of ‘haven’t seen her in four years’ do you find difficult, Halduron?”

 

  Halduron, snarling, tugs his blade from its scabbard. “Have you sold us out to Arthas? Is that why he is attacking Silvermoon- argh!”

 

  A blast of mana sends Halduron flying across and pins him, squawking, to the wall with thick ropes of arcane power. “These accusations are at best unfounded, and at worst, grossly offensive,” Rhonin growls, hand aloft. “You nose through the Ranger-General’s private possessions one more time, Farstrider, and you will discover that the Violet Hold is a very lonely and very unforgiving place. Sylvanas-” he glances at Vereesa, and his mouth tightens into a grimace- “broke many lives that day. Your Ranger-General stands before you fighting to save them.”

 

  A cheer goes up outside. Vereesa lets out the breath she is holding, heart hammering in her throat, and cranes round to peer through the doorway. “The Kul Tiran forces have arrived,” she murmurs absently, and turns back to Halduron, still struggling against Rhonin’s magic. “Do not forget that I swore that day to kill my own sister on sight,” she grits out, and the steel in her voice sends Halduron cringing backwards. “Attend your duties, Farstrider.”

 

  Halduron’s feet thud to the ground, and he staggers into a hasty bow before rushing outside and back to the gaggle of rangers clustered by the front gates of Fairbreeze.

 

  Rhonin steps closer only for Vereesa to pull herself away. “I… need a moment.”

 

  “You have been talking about her? How many people have you approached?”

 

  “Only four!” Once again she bats his hand away, turns and busies herself with stuffing the book back into its pouch on her waistband. “If nothing else, I may yet uncover another traitor, hidden in our midst- oh, Dar’khan, anaria shola?”

 

  “Bal’a dash, Ranger-General, I come straight from Silvermoon.” The elf’s robes are full of muddy dust, shoes caked in filth; Vereesa would be concerned, if not for the usual obsequious bow and the slightly smug expression. “I scried some pretty new war machines joining Arthas as he marched through northern Lordaeron. Seems his plan is to lay siege to Silvermoon.” Dar’khan wipes unusually sweaty hair from his unusually sweaty forehead, disgust curling his mouth. “I have informed the Regent Lord of these developments. Arthas marches on us still, but we have the Elrendar to our advantage- is that correct?”

 

  Vereesa jerks her head down, nose crinkling. “Waging war with… machines? What does he think we are? Forest trolls?”

 

  “You haven’t seen them,” Rhonin says, and the softness of his voice brings her up short. “Thank you, Dar’khan, but Modera and I had already scried the siege engines Arthas has constructed… they use the corpses of their enemies as ammunition, Vereesa.”

 

  “Then we will give them none, and prove they are even more useless than I-”

 

  A wet thud on the roof of the building stops them short, and they crane upwards just as blood drips through the thatched roof and down onto Rhonin’s shoulder.

 

  “He cannot be here already,” Rhonin croaks.

 

  “WILDHAMMER, AERIAL ATTACKER! TO ARMS!” Kurdran Wildhammer screams outside, just as the torso of Kelmarin Brightmorrow splatters down in front of the doorway.

 

  “Kelmarin!” Dar’khan sprints forwards to kneel beside the pile of innards. Even through the frantic crowd streaming through Fairbreeze, shooting at the plaguebat and its shrieking skeletal rider now hovering high above the village, Vereesa glimpses Rommath’s eyes widen and his staff fall to the ground at the sight of Drathir. “Friend mine…”

 

  “He was not your friend,” Rommath snaps.

 

  “Stop! Both of you, stop.” Vereesa wipes her face and straightens her spine, staring determinedly away from the corpse that just a fleet hour ago had been a trusted companion. The plaguebat swooping away with its undead master looks the only black mark on the horizon, but there is a hint of something malevolent on the wind that sets her hackles rising. “Arthas… or some of his forces, must be closer to the Elrendar than we thought. Kelmarin is- was fast, but not that fast. Rhonin, I need your magi ready to scry their advance. Now.”

 

  “Yes, of course, Ranger-General.” Her husband is gone in a literal flash, shouting for his magi up and down the street.

 

  Vereesa turns, surveys the forces clustered behind her, grim resolution on their faces. “Where are Stormrage’s druids?” A cluster to her right murmurs and scoots forwards. “Shapeshift and fly over them, bring us back reports of their progress.” So many eager elven faces, so many rumbling tauren voices, and a lump forms in her throat at the realisation some of these green-clad ranks will never return to Fairbreeze… alive, anyway. “Wildhammer dwarves, will you accompany them?”

 

  The gryphons are already in the air, their stout riders saluting her as the druids flap up to join them. “We’ll let you know how long you have,” one of the dwarves hollers as they glide away.

 

  Vereesa tugs her cloak off and wordlessly covers Kelmarin’s still-steaming remains with it. “Al diel shala, brightest of Farstriders,” she whispers, and stands, wiping his blood from her hands. “You will be avenged.”

 

-0-0-

 

  Jaina’s feet thud down onto cool grass. For a second, she closes her eyes and fumbles for the tail ends of her own harried spellwork, heart thudding in her throat. _She should be here, she should be he-_

“JAINA!” Hands slam down onto her shoulders and shake her so hard her teeth rattle. “You broke your promise, fool mage!”

 

  She squirms out of the vice grips and twists, grabbing the Lady’s arm in an attempt to pull her off-balance only for the Lady to throw her backwards into the undergrowth and pin her in place by a hand on her chest. “Do _not_ play games with me,” she hisses. “You swore to me!”

 

  “I promised not to follow you,” Jaina gasps. The leaves behind the Lady’s snarling face are not the burnished bronze of Quel’Thalas, rather the deep green of Lordaeron; something, somewhere, blocked her path. “But I arrived here first. You followed me, Dark Lady.”

 

  “Go home. Do not play games with me, Jaina!”

 

  “Do you expect me to sit by and watch the rest of Azeroth struggle against the man I failed to stop? After all I’ve done to try and thwart him, all these hours we’ve worked together to turn my magic into weapons? Would you prefer me lounging on a comfortable chair while you watch your people felled like saplings by his war machine?”

 

  “Yes,” the Lady grits out. “I would.”

 

  “Why?”

 

  The crimson eyes blink. “His fall into corruption is not your burden to bear, Jaina,” she says, slowly. “And he is a formidable foe.”

 

  “I know he is. But I too am terrifying to behold when I want to be.” The hand on Jaina’s chest is so light, as though the Lady were scared of breaking her. It is endearing and infuriating in equal measures, and she lifts her own palm to the Lady’s shoulder and pushes until the woman relents, moving all of her weight onto the hand supporting her upper body. “My knowledge of Arthas is unparalleled save for Terenas Menethil- and I know things he would never have dreamed his son capable of, even before he turned. You know what we face. I know _who_ we face.”

 

  “You know who indeed. But he did not get this far on his own.” The Lady turns away, fangs bared. Jaina can feel her body, stiff with tension, against her own. “You ask me to make an impossible decision, Jaina. It is an unkind position to be in.”

 

  “I’m sorry,” Jaina says, earnestly. “I- I do understand. And I told my mother it was entirely my decision, and no blame was to be placed on your shoulders. But I will not be sent home like a damsel in disgrace when Arthas threatens my allies… and I will not let you fight alone. You deserve better than that.”

 

  The Lady’s eyebrows purse. For a moment, she is still, and Jaina lets her own eyes fall shut and concentrates only on the hot, angry breaths on her cheek, the solid warmth of the Lady’s lithe form pressed lightly against her own.

 

  A traitorous feeling rises deep inside her belly, something primal and fiery, and Jaina’s eyes widen as an ache begins to throb beneath her leggings.

 

  “Get up,” the Lady says, and rocks back on her heels.

 

  Jaina, flustered and ruddy-cheeked and ridiculously displeased to lose the Lady’s body against hers, struggles upright, flicking leaves out of her own hair. “I don’t expect you to declare all forgiven that easily-”

 

  The Lady’s bow is drawn so fast Jaina barely has time to duck as the arrow whistles past her ear and lodges in the eye of a shambling monstrosity behind them.

 

  “Get up!” Jaina yelps as the Lady tugs her to her feet and shoves her behind her own body, head swerving this way and that. “Immolate that thing.”

 

  Without a word, Jaina bathes it in flames. “Where are we?” she asks softly, glancing at the Lady. “How did we end up in Lordaeron?”

 

  “No portals into Quel’Thalas when emergency is declared,” the Lady grits out. “And they could not afford to differentiate, for fear of allowing enemies in.”

 

  “The Kirin Tor threw my teleportation?”

 

  “Yes! You’re lucky we weren’t sent to the Twisting Nether. Do you see any more abominations?”

 

  Jaina strains, holding her breath. All around them, even the trees stand still; the only sounds in the cool night air are her own heart thudding in her throat and the creaking of the Lady’s bowstring. “There is a farmstead there,” she says under her breath. “Perhaps we can shelter there from the cold, make a fire.”

 

  _Bed down,_ a treacherous voice whispers.

 

  The Lady peers round in the direction of Jaina’s arm, eyes narrowed. “That is the Marris Stead! What trick- do not approach that farmstead, Jaina. We make for Quel’Thalas. Now.”

 

  “You know the occupant?”

 

  “No more questions! If you must insist on putting yourself in danger, you will be quiet and do as I say.”

 

  “When have I ever done that,” Jaina mutters, and wraps her arms around herself.

 

  The Lady slots her bow back into place on its strap and glances at Jaina, face inscrutable. “Certainly at no time I have ever known you. This is war. The rules have changed.” Crimson eyes flick up and down Jaina’s form. “Here.” And in one fluid motion, she strips her own cloak off and wraps it around Jaina’s shoulders. It smells of sweet Thalassian tulips, and in spite of their circumstances it calms her racing heart. “It is enchanted to keep the wearer warm.”

 

  “But you-”

 

  “Will reclaim it later. Move.” A gentle shove prompts Jaina towards the forest’s edge. “And stay silent. We can fight one abomination, but not a group.”

 

  “Do you know where to go from here?”

 

  “We will scout our way to Windrunner Village, south-west of Fairbreeze. It’s not far. There is- an outbuilding we can hide in.” There is something resigned in the Lady’s voice. “After that we find our way to Fairbreeze when we have light to do it by. And we hope the Scourge does not beat us there.”

 

  “Lead the way,” Jaina says softly.

 

  “Stay with me. The day fades rapidly.” A firm hand intertwines its fingers with Jaina’s. “Keep a watchful eye. Now- run.”

 

-0-0-

 

  Kurdran Wildhammer squints down through the clouds. Night is approaching faster than he had thought, but the dim green glow of the Scourge betrays them even through the gloom. “Tae the right,” he hollers round at one of the druids, and they peel off to whirl away.

 

  Wings brush Kurdran’s arm, and he doesn’t have to look to recognise Amish and his beloved gryphon. “Those war engines have ammunition aplenty already,” he says in a low voice. “Where have they been?”

 

  “Not sure I want to know,” Kurdran replies. He chances a quick swoop down and just as swiftly rises up again, fists white-knuckled on Sky’ree’s reins. “Aye- wagons full of ‘em. Sick bastards. But where are their plaguebats?”

 

  He turns right round in the saddle, glaring back at Fairbreeze, little more than a dot in the distance. “The ground forces are moving slow enough for the Elrendar to throttle ‘em, but it’s the numbers we need to thin,” he says, loud enough for Amish to hear. “And those machines must-”

 

  The sudden intake of breath makes Amish’s head jerk round. “Kurdran?”

 

  “The plaguebats- they’re splittin’! Look!” Kurdran lunges with his hammer towards a single group of screeching bats, huddled tight around a skeletal horse- “Arthas! Arthas is in there with ‘em! And they’re going- south west?”

 

  “Aye, but why?” Amish’s normally ruddy face is pale, eyebrows tightly pursed. “What’s south west?”

 

  “One o’ the smaller elven villages. The one with the fancy spire.” Kurdran licks suddenly-dry lips, runs a reassuring hand down Sky’ree’s flank. “Ach, I feel sorry for any soul still there, but we havnae time to check and we can’t fight that many bats. Amish- go straight back to report. We’ll count the siege engines.” His face lights up. “And we’ll see if we can’t lay siege to a few of ‘em ourselves.”

 

  Amish is gone in a flash of feathers, rocketing back towards Fairbreeze as Kurdran takes a deep breath and points his hammer towards the closest of the great grisly machines. “Wildhammers- form up… druids, behind us! On my word- ATTACK!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again- I can only apologise for the length of time this chapter took. Hope the festive season was kind to you and I hope the chapter made up for the wait. Bit more Sylvaina booked for the next chapter.


	7. In Which Jaina Cracks First, and Sylvanas Second

  _Eversong Woods, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms- woefully unaware of the danger heading straight for them_

“You do realise you have arrived here with nothing more than your staff and the clothes on your back. Some of which do not even belong to you.”

 

  Jaina forces her face into a smile. Even in the gloom, broken only by the dim light from Jaina’s staff, Sylvanas can see how strained it is. “I’ll make do. At least we won’t starve.”

 

  At some point as they were walking along, Jaina slipped an arm around Sylvanas’s waist. In between keeping her grumpy dignity intact and absolutely-not-on-purpose pressing closer to her charge, Sylvanas has found the walk to Windrunner Village rather shorter than she had feared. “We will not starve, no,” she says, and leaves it at that.

 

  Pressed this close, Jaina smells of the sea. Salty and sharp, with a deep, strong scent that reminds Sylvanas of days spent by the beach with her sisters and Lirath. Just once, she glimpsed Jaina lift the corner of her cloak to her nose and inhale deeply, and has resolved to wash it as soon as possible (though when it could have become dirty she’s not sure) when she has the chance.

 

  “Do you think we will meet Mother there?” Jaina says suddenly. Her fingers tighten on Sylvanas’s hip. “I… I do feel bad for leaving with only a note to explain.”

 

  “You do realise if we had stayed, we could have gone straight to Fairbreeze with the other troops,” Sylvanas mutters.

 

  “You and I both know that Mother would not have let me go.”

 

  “Somehow that does not trouble me.”

 

  She can almost hear Jaina rolling her eyes. “I didn’t think it would. I- I feel as though I have angered you, too… and I haven’t yet apologised for teleporting you without your consent. I hope it didn’t upset your stomach.”

 

  Sylvanas heaves a sigh. “I could cast you back to Kul Tiras in disgrace. Or I could keep you by my side and do my duty. You are of age, Miss Proudmoore, and a skilled sorceress.” She fixes Jaina with a glare. “Do not attempt hand to hand combat. Ice block them. I will not be taking you back to Proudmoore Keep in a box.”

 

  Jaina mock salutes her. “I’ll leave you to do the difficult stuff.”

 

  The dark only dulls one of Sylvanas’s senses. On her left is the faint burble of the smaller waterfall; they cannot be more than an hour’s ride from the Spire. The peacebloom carpeting the forest floor here is muskier, a headier scent betraying damper soil. The leaves brushing her outstretched fingertips are smaller and softer than their coastal cousins. With how they turn gently outward rather than curl inward, they may be even closer to the Village than she had thought.

 

  Were she alone, she would have shot up the nearest tree and used the leaf cover to disguise her movements. But Jaina is not quite so nimble at climbing, and they have no time to be bandaging broken limbs, so they amble along on the ground instead.

 

  “You know Windrunner Village well,” Jaina says after a time. “You must do, to be so certain of where you are going.”

 

  “I have a passing knowledge of it.” She crouches to examine a track her foot scuffed over, runs a careful finger around the outline. “Just a wild cat… it is the job of every Farstrider to know every corner of this woodland as intimately as they can. Why do you ask, do you believe I will lead you off the edge of a cliff?”

 

  “At least then my clothes would get a good wash. No, I trust you.” Sylvanas tries to ignore the little thrill in her belly at those words. “I’m just trying to make conversation. Something to take our minds off the task ahead. Are all elven villages named after families?”

 

  “Originally, yes. Whether the family still exists or not.” She allows her own arm to slide under the cloak and around Jaina’s lower back. Merely the actions of a bodyguard concerned her charge will slip. Who will see, here in the dark?

 

  “And the Windrunners do?”

 

  “Some of them. In some form or another.” How surreal this conversation is, walking towards the forces of undeath ravaging her homeland, speaking of her own loved ones as though they were elves she had glimpsed in the street. “Had we been arriving in daylight, you would have seen the Spire in its true glory. One of the finest pieces of elven architecture outside of Silvermoon, designed to capture and magnify every last ray from the sun. Some spread the rumour that the spires were made of polished gems for how they would gleam, even in the darkest of Thalassian nights… fanciful rumours, of course, and a disservice to an impressive architect.” She straightens a little, squinting through the gloom. “Perhaps one day you will return and see.”

 

  “I would like that,” Jaina says softly. Her grip on Sylvanas tightens a little. “You must guide me.”

 

  “I must have forgotten the part of those reference papers that stated I sojourned as a tour operator.”

 

  “You spoke about Windrunner Spire with such passion!”

 

  Sylvanas’s mouth twists into a grimace. Shit. She should have caught herself quicker. “Not passion- merely a wish to keep the conversation ongoing. You must feel pride when you introduce people to Proudmoore Keep?”

 

  “I should. But it was my father’s design. Truthfully, I see his hand in it wherever I turn, and while it comforts Mother, it has the opposite effect for me.”

 

  Eyes downcast, Sylvanas gently squeezes Jaina’s midriff. “I did not intend to bring up such memories. We may talk further about Quel’Thalas if you prefer.” They will be upon Windrunner Village in minutes, but the idea of spending them in morose silence is not a pleasant one.

 

  Thankfully, morose silence is not a concept Jaina understands. “There seem to be many villages in Eversong- help me to understand your people. Do you trade between villages or centrally? How local are the laws?” It could be the uneven forest floor, but she thinks Jaina’s hand slips down to the top of her buttock for the briefest of seconds before dashing back up. “Is there marriage between settlements?” Is her voice a little breathy?

 

  “Yes, trade is usually engineered between a village and its closest neighbours. These are not small settlements- many thousands live in Fairbreeze. But aside from local magisters, the laws are kingdom-wide… marriage? Of course we marry outside of our own villages- do you think us inbred?”

 

  “Not even for a second! Entirely my own curiosity.” Even in the dark, she can see the gleam Jaina’s eyes take on as they glance to her and immediately back down. “I don’t suppose an elf seeks your hand in marriage?”

 

  “If they do, they will find my hand. Perhaps half a second before it strikes them in the face. Am I walking too fast? You seem out of breath-”

 

  “No, no, I’m fine.” They lock eyes again through the gloom. “Still just curiosity. The men of Kul Tiras would line up for you.”

 

  Sylvanas barks out a laugh. “In a military capacity, I hope.” How ridiculous, that they are having this casual and frankly entertaining conversation as they approach Arthas’s army of corpses. At least Jaina is not focussed on him. “And what of the women of Kul Tiras, Miss Proudmoore?”

 

  “Oh!” Jaina looks as though someone has sent a jet of icy water into her face. “I- I imagine the same.”

 

  There is a brief silence.

 

  “Does that discomfort you?” Sylvanas, suddenly apprehensive, squints at her. Kul Tiras and Dalaran have their fair share of priests and paladins with- antiquated- views, but she had felt so sure that Jaina would not share them-

 

  “No, I am the same,” Jaina says.

 

  It’s Sylvanas’s turn to gape. “I- I see,” she says, and curses herself for stumbling over her words like some initiate on the training field. Clearing her throat, and grateful for the gloom disguising the rush of blood to her cheeks, she continues: “Then I would soon be overlooked.”

 

  Jaina snorts, shaking her head. “And here I was thinking how vain elves are. How is it I have spent four years in your company and you have never once told me this?”

 

  “I could say the same for you. It is simply the gravity of the situation. The last time I marched like this to counter a foe, my second in command told me out of nowhere that he once fell face-first in the Elrendar tying his own bootlaces on the bank.” Sylvanas drops to a crouch once again, runs her fingers through the rotting leaves on the forest floor. “It will be a hard frost tonight. With any luck, icy ground will slow Arthas’s forces. If anything slows them. I admit, I had thought you would have courted by now,” she continues, straightening back up only to find Jaina’s arm back around her within a second. “You have a privileged position to be doing it in.”

 

  “I have looked.” Jaina leans a little closer. “I may have found someone who intrigues me.”

 

  “You will have to take your tales of heroism home to impress her with.” Sylvanas attempts to ignore the stab in her gut at Jaina’s proclamation. “Tell her of how you single-handedly felled a great swathe of undead with a single fire nova and leapt upon their commander and filled him with ice bolts. Just ensure she was not there at the time.”

 

  Chuckling, Jaina hops neatly over a patch of briarthorn. “Indeed. That will be the difficult part.”

 

  The grass is shortening, its brush against her calves coarser; they are nearly upon the Village, and the coldest part of the night draws rapidly closer. “Stay with me,” she says, all trace of humour gone, as the dark and silent Spire emerges from the trees. No sound, not even dragonhawks screeching across to one another. She knew Little Moon would ensure the villagers were taken to safety.

 

  Before she can reach for her Jaina has already pressed against her, hand outstretched and crackling with barely-bound power. “This is the Village?”

 

  “Yes. Do you see that hut there?”

 

  Eyes lit by the arcane follow Sylvanas’s hand. “On the edge of the forest?”

 

  She tugs her bow from her back and nocks an arrow. “Yes. We hide there. Follow closely and extinguish your staff, we cannot attract the-”

 

  “Living!” cries a guttural voice, and Jaina’s spell explodes forward as an enormous creature crashes through the trees towards them.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Eversong Woods, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms- as Sylvanas fires_

“We cannae hold them!” Kurdran’s voice is nearly lost through the thick cloud as he rears up from another dive-bomb, warhammer sticky with ichor and ooze. “They stretch as far as we can see!”

 

  Which, granted, is not far, with the inky black sky they now fly through. His eyesight might be better than the humans’, and the night elves are in their element- but it does not take his beady eyes to see the army beneath him marches steadfastly onward in spite of their onslaught, churning with endless skeletons and ghouls fuelling the great catapults with their own corpses, sending the gryphons and druids swooping out of the way of lumps of decomposed flesh and towards the hooks of enormous abominations. Undeterred, they swoop back in to claw at glazed yellow eyes, but even the foolhardiest of his warriors will know it is lost. “Fall back tae Fairbreeze!” he hollers. “We fight them on our own terms!” An answering dwarven shout is cut short by the shadow-fletched arrow of a dead elf, the gryphon screeching with panic as its rider topples down into the throng of ghouls below. “Fall back! NOW!”

 

  The druids do not need telling twice; they are gone by the time the gryphons have wheeled about, careering around the heads of the foot soldiers to disorientate and confuse their ranks while the dwarves fling what ammunition they have down into the seething mass of undeath. Kurdran bites back a cry as one of the druids falls, a mass of green feathers thudding down into the corpse army. Already too many have died and Fairbreeze lies still on the horizon, merely a glimmer in the cold night.

 

  As they rise above the clouds, he surveys his forces, allowing himself a grunt of relief at how few losses they sustained. The druids’ talons drip congealed ichor, the gryphons’ feathers and legs slick with gore. “Aye, we did a good job, lads an’ lassies,” he says, shaking splinters of bloody bone from his weapon. “Now we just have to defeat ‘em and we can all have a good stiff drink in Ironforge on me.” One hand comes down to clap Sky’ree firmly on the neck, and she squeaks with pleasure. “And you, my beauty- there will not be enough feed in the Eastern Kingdoms to reward you.”

 

  A low, mournful caw sounds beside him, and he turns to the empty saddle of a tawny brown gryphon. “Ach, I’m sorry. Malak loved you,” he murmurs. “You can nestle with Sky’ree for the time being. No Wildhammer gryphon sleeps alone.” He cranes back, past the mass of ghouls beneath. Amish must have arrived back safe… heart already hurting from his losses, he must believe so. Such a skilled gryphon and rider must have made it.

 

  The Ranger-General must know Arthas is on his own mission.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Windrunner Spire, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms_

 

  “SMASH!” The rotting behemoth lumbers into a charge, eyes alight with malice as it dodges the Lady’s arrow by a sliver and sends Jaina’s frostbolt flying away with one meaty hand. “Me smash puny elf humans!”

 

  “At least they’re not intelligent,” the Lady hisses, firing two arrows in quick succession; the abomination roars as one embeds itself in its leg, furious yellow eyes fixating on the tree she crouches in. “Shit-”

 

  “You DIE!” It lunges for her and the Lady leaps to the next bough, only to dart away again a split second later as the first tree brings the second crashing to the ground; Jaina flings arcane missiles crashing against its thick skull, channelling the most potent pain she can, yet its eyes remain trained on the Lady’s form as she jumps aside from each blow-

 

  “Hey! Ugly! OVER HERE!” Jaina levitates the biggest rock she can and slams it into the side of the beast’s face, bringing it twisting round with a snarl just as the Lady tugs her final arrow from her quiver and before it can let loose another roar Jaina flings a ball of fire at its nose, sending it careening backwards with a scream and the Lady drops her bow and yanks a blade from her belt to slice cleanly through its charred head.

 

  They stand, breathing hard, as it thuds twitching to the forest floor.

 

  “Shit,” the Lady hisses. She snatches her bow up. “Jaina, are you hurt?”

 

  “Me? N-no, I’m fine. Are you alright?” The Lady nods; Jaina glances back down at the remains below them and shudders. Arthas really has become everything she feared he could. “What is here that they could want? The Spire?”

 

  “There’s nothing of interest in the Spire. Let us hope it was separated from its vile comrades. Jaina- we must get inside before any more find us.” The Lady grabs the hand not still smouldering red and runs, pulling Jaina along behind her; Jaina barely has time to shake the embers from her fingers before the Lady’s tugging a small silver something from her pocket and picking at the lock on the door, glancing around behind her. “Do you hear or see anyone or anything?”

 

  “No.”

 

  “Good.” And with that, she tugs Jaina inside and slams the door behind them.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Fairbreeze Village, Eversong Woods, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms_

Dar’khan Drathir has not even had time to find a fresh set of robes before Grand Magister Rommath, snarling like a wild hog, rounds on him and pins him to the wall of his chambers. “What did she say to you?” he hisses, hands either side of Dar’khan, trapping him against the cool sandstone. “Proudmoore’s bodyguard?”

 

  “Oh, I didn’t get to see her. Miss Jaina refused to take the message or summon her bodyguard.” Dar’khan resists the urge to roll his eyes. He is no messenger, he is a key advisor to Lor’themar Theron himself… and Rommath is little more than an oaf, barely a capable enough mage to worm within the ranks of the Kirin Tor. “She warned me that relations with Quel’Thalas, currently amicable, would change drastically for the worse if you attempted to contact her bodyguard again. Tell me, Rommath, was she one of the many you used and spat out? Helheim hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

 

  “Watch your tongue, Drathir,” Rommath growls.

 

  “My apologies, Grand Magister. It was a very forceful message. You would be wise to listen.” Dar’khan doesn’t understand what game Rommath is playing, and quite frankly, he cares even less. Let him swoon after this mystery elf, while Dar’khan works towards the preservation of the quel’dorei. Not something Rommath will be part of, he comforts himself as he forces his body into a deep bow. “She appeared quite angry. Reparations will be in order once we have dealt with the threat from the Scourge.”

 

  “Right.” Rommath’s brow is heavily furrowed. Surely the bore is not confused by his message? “I’m sure you’re needed on the front line, Drathir.”

 

  Dar’khan bows again. “I’m sure I am.” It matters little how many he kills fighting alongside the forces of the living. Arthas can re-animate them within seconds. “Tell me one thing, before you leave- I’ve heard whispers of Thyala Dawnbloom and Dranosh Saurfang being sighted within the ranks of the undead. I presume we are to kill them on sight, not take them prisoner?”

 

  He had begged Arthas to send them to Northrend, desperate that they be out of harm’s way should they be captured and interrogated; he is not so stupid as to think they would not mention his presence in Icecrown. Arthas, however, had wanted their combat prowess to aid in his capture of the Sunwell. Amongst other things. “After all, it would demoralise our people to know that the traitor Dawnbloom had aided Arthas so,” he says. “She is but a reminder of Windrunner and her treachery.”

 

  Rommath’s eyes narrow. “Yes, she is. I will speak with Lor’themar as to her fate.”

 

  A third bow. Dar’khan is a firm believer in bows. Everyone likes to be flattered. “Very well, Grand Magister. I apologise that your message was not received in the manner you had hoped.”

 

  Rommath waves him away, already striding down the corridor. Good. He must find a new set of robes and re-appear soon, to maintain his appearance of finicky old Dar’khan, everyone’s loyal friend of Quel’Thalas. And that is just what he is. A loyal friend of what Arthas can, and will, make the quel’dorei.

 

-0-0-

 

  _How did Jaina know?_ Rommath grinds his teeth as he stalks down the corridor. It is ridiculous to think she could be privy to Sylvanas’s secret, but why else would she turn Dar’khan away?

 

  It is possible, though certainly unexpected, that she knows and has chosen to hide it from her mother- in truth, Rommath had expected Katherine Proudmoore to rumble Sylvanas, but clearly she had not bothered to look past the Ranger-General’s garb in Silvermoon on their first and last meeting that day. Humans are, after all, incredibly unobservant.

 

  Dar’khan, the treacherous maggot, may be lying to him. But he has every motive to remain in Lor’themar’s good books… and even Drathir could not deny that Rommath could have the Regent Lord imprison him in a heartbeat. No, he must find Jaina Proudmoore and speak with her personally. She is a rational creature, by all accounts, and Sylvanas’s influence is limited- a bodyguard? Really? She must hate this new existence of hers.

 

  And now he has the inconvenient task of engineering another way to have Dar’khan meet a tragic end. Sylvanas would have done it so neatly, too.

 

  “GRYPHON RIDER!” one of the lookouts screams, and Rommath turns on his heel to dart outside as a dwarf and his steed thud down onto the dusty ground, liberally covered in gore and ichor. Either their losses have been exceptionally dire, or this one was selected to convey a message. He hurries outside.

 

  “You’re sure it was to the south west? And he took all of his plaguebats?” Vereesa is crouched beside the listing bird, one hand on the dwarf’s back as he slides off the creature. Rommath glances round towards Rhonin and the look they exchange is one of acute anxiety. “But why would he-”

 

  “That village, Ranger-General. Pretty spire. That’s where he was goin’, sticking right to the path.” The dwarf wipes his forehead with one meaty hand and takes a deep breath. “I left Kurdran and the others to try and thin the ranks heading this way. He looked a man on a mission, did Arthas.”

 

  “Windrunner Village,” Vereesa whispers, face pale. “At least he’ll be wasting his time. There’s nothing there for him.” She straightens, running a hand over her forehead. “Rhonin- I’ll take the elite guard of the Farstriders and see whether we can isolate him from his forces. Only the elite- any more will slow us down. If the worst should happen, we have the forest to escape into, and that great skeletal horse will find itself mired within seconds.” Her husband chews his lip but nods nonetheless. “Amish, take some water and rest. Rommath, you’re in charge here.”

 

  He gives her a small bow and turns towards the cluster of green-clad humans talking rapidly in what could be another language, for all the slang Rommath finds himself bamboozled by. What in the Sunwell’s name is a _poop deck?_ “I’ll bring the Commander of the Proudmoore Admiralty up to speed on what faces us before the Lord Admiral arrives.”

 

  Forcing his face into a smile, Rommath straightens his spine. With Vereesa gone and Lor’themar distracted, the perfect opportunity to strike at Dar’khan presents itself. He would be a fool not to cut off Arthas’s supply of information at this juncture. “Bring us back his head, Ranger-General.”

 

  “Just bring us back yourself safe,” Rhonin mutters.

 

-0-0-

 

  “It’s- warm in here?” Jaina touches a gentle hand to her staff and sets it burning as brightly as a torch. Detritus litters the room; a full set of armour on a mannequin, bows hung on a rack on one wall, a beautifully-carved set of table and chairs. The spellbooks piled on one shelf do not escape her notice either. “Well, at least I can pass the time with advanced arithmancy,” she says under her breath.

 

  The Lady props her muddied bow against one of the chairs and sinks onto the seat, eyes flitting around. “Daybreak is in a couple of hours. We move as soon as it arrives.” She tugs a single sleeping mat from her knapsack and hands it to Jaina, already pulling an intricately-embroidered blanket from the same pocket. “It won’t be the softest night’s sleep, but you’ll manage.”

 

  “Thank you. Are we taking turns watching?” Already bent to spread the mat out, Jaina glances up, squinting at the shadowed profile of the Lady. “An hour each sounds fair.”

 

  “It does. Get some rest.”

 

  Straightening up, Jaina wanders over to the spellbooks. “I always read before bed. Can’t fall asleep without it,” she admits, picking the top one off the pile. “And no, it doesn’t really matter what the book is. It’s the feel of it in my hands, it’s scanning words on a page and the smell of parchment.”

 

  “Romantic,” the Lady snorts.

 

  “I suppose you are immune to such distractions?”

 

  “I do not choose to read, no.” Crimson eyes scan the spine of the book Jaina has in her hands. “You speak Thalassian?”

 

  “Ah.” Snorting a giggle, she slides her legs beneath the soft blanket and opens the book to a page thick with elegant elven script. “Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a translator?”

 

  “It’ll do a far superior job of sending you to sleep than any tome in Common, at least.”

 

  “It’s always refreshing to find someone unfamiliar with Archmage Antonidas’s texts.” Her smile widens at the Lady’s huff of laughter. “There’s a hand-written dedication in it. I understand you leaving me to guess the rest, but at least tell me what this part says.”

 

  Rolling her eyes, the Lady descends gracefully to the floor beside Jaina. Lit softly by her staff, this close Jaina can see the details of her face; the tear-track scars across her cheeks, the haughty curve of her nose, the delicate hairs trailing into those long stiff eyebrows. Heat rises in her chest and she shifts uncomfortably. “It translates to: for my dearest brother Lirath. May each enchanted arrow fly true, imbued with your wisdom, and may your determination burn brighter than any conjured flame. With my love… Lady Moon.” Jaina blinks as the Lady shoves herself abruptly upright and marches back to her seat, face turned away from Jaina’s. “Now- gorge yourself on those pages and sleep.”

 

  “It’s… a lovely dedication,” Jaina says slowly, somewhat unnerved by the abrupt cold shoulder. What has she done? “Thank you for translating. Someday I aspire to be as skilled with tongues as you are.”

 

  One hand waves in her direction. “I have a few years’ head start on you. Are you still awake?”

 

  Jaina drops her eyes back to the book. There is something familiar about the handwriting of the dedication, but she is clearly no expert on elven scripture. “No. Honest.” And she lifts a hand to dim the light from her staff.

 

  “Good. Goodnight.”

 

  Jaina wriggles to bring one arm up as a makeshift pillow, nestling into it as best she can. It could be her imagination- extremely overstimulated, with such close proximity to this woman she has learned to love the company of- but she thinks she hears the Lady’s chair creak just a little, just a second before a gentle touch brushes the escaped hairs from her braid off her cheek.

 

  She closes her eyes, evens out her breathing, and tries to focuss on her company instead of the memories of Arthas.

 

-0-0-

 

  “There! Just as Amish described- they followed the path.” Above the rush of the hawkstriders' harried steps, Vereesa’s voice is little more than a hiss on the wind, yet every Farstrider's head turns towards the speck of green in the distance. “Perhaps they think themselves too scary for an ambush. They haven’t even tried to breach the forest. We play this right, sisters, and it could be a slaughter.” She squints forwards, ears taut. “When they reach Windrunner Village, we will trap them in the central plaza and use the tree cover there for our attack. They will have nowhere to go but up- and above us, they remain sitting ducks.”

 

  Hidden by the inky cloak of night, her smile widens. “We could finish this before the bastard has even started. Aim true, sisters. This is our moment.”

 

-0-0-

 

  It’s no use. Twenty minutes after she ‘went to sleep’, Jaina’s mind continues to race.

 

  Once, Jaina had known a blond-haired prince who treated his holy hammer like his son. He had been gentle- surprisingly so. He had treated her with polite bewilderment and delighted in discovering her less ladylike ways. She had felt his presence like a beacon of his beloved Light, and she had cared for him and his gaunt smile in much the same way she had cared for her brothers. And he had so carefully kept a part of himself out of her reach, but at the time, it hadn’t bothered her; after all, was she not now in the exact same situation with the high elf padding around her, believing herself unheard?

 

  It wasn’t until she had seen proof of Arthas’s true cruelty that she had turned on him and by then it was too late. Uther had trusted him too. He had suspected so little that Jaina wondered if he had even felt the blade sever his head from his neck.

 

  _At least he stands glorious in the Light,_ she tries to tell herself.

 

  Whatever fate had befallen the nerubians in Northrend, she didn’t know. But he had- and he had practised. Vomit rises in her craw and she gulps hard. Truly she would never forget watching the Queen of Lordaeron rise from her tomb… or the potent arcane dust she had shattered into seconds later at the hands of her son.

 

  The Lady pauses. Jaina listens as those graceful footsteps move closer, keeps herself still as a lock of soft hair brushes her jawline.

 

  It takes all of her self-control not to look up as a careful, feather-light hand draws the blanket up over her shoulder and tucks it gently in behind her neck before she rises and moves away, and Jaina can finally risk squinting through the darkness towards the sight of the Lady running her fingers over every bow and every surface as though each were an old friend she knew dearly. Now she is closer, she can make out a name in elegant script beside each bow: Vereesa, Velonara, Alleria (familiar somehow), Halduron, Kelmarin, Lirath (a light cover of dust on that bow), Anya, Clea, and one bow with the name scratched out- and that, as she watches, is the bow the Lady pauses on.

 

  Oh, she is trying to be silent; high elves are exceptionally good at it. But Jaina, keeping herself completely still, watches through half-closed eyes as the Lady carefully lifts the unknown elf’s bow from the wall and nocks a freshly-fletched arrow, pointing it towards the window, stance perfect for a fast and final shot. Jaina can’t help but lie fascinated as she stretches her fingers into different positions, twitches her legs this way and that, each movement so taut and precise she may as well be a gnomish animatronic. “Bash’a no falor talah!” she whispers, and her entire being snaps into position.

 

  Every muscle poised, arrow strung- she is an avenging wrath on her own, and Jaina drinks the sight of her in.

 

  In the next second, she’s shaking her head and returning the bow to its hook.

 

  The only way Jaina will stay still now is if she ice blocks herself, so she gives up. “What does that mean?” she asks, propping herself up on one elbow; the Lady swerves, a snarl on her face that Jaina very deliberately ignores. “You may have your sleeping mat back, if you wish. I could drink all the hot cow’s milk on Azeroth and it wouldn’t stop my brain racing away.”

 

  “Impudent mage!” But there is no anger in the Lady’s voice. “If you really cannot rest- practise your spellwork instead of spying on me.”

 

  Jaina takes a deep breath. This may be an incredibly bad idea, but her heart hasn’t stopped racing from the guilty pleasure of watching the Lady’s form. “Spying? I was merely keeping my eyes on something that pleased them,” she says with a smile.

 

  A smile that widens as the Lady’s cheeks flush just a little. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Jaina,” she rebukes. “Think of your lovely lady back in Kul Tiras if you wish to have those kinds of thoughts.”

 

  “There is no lovely lady back in Kul Tiras.” In for a copper, in for a gold? Jaina is so tired of this dance, tired of wishing and wanting from right beside this strange and irredeemably attractive woman. If they are to die by Arthas’s blade, she might as well have some fun before he finds her. “I mean, she is not in Kul Tiras now.”

 

  “She is in the military?”

 

  “I suppose you could say that.”

 

  The Lady opens her mouth again to speak, but Jaina cuts her off. “I was referring to you, actually.”

 

  She clambers upright in the stunned silence that follows. The Lady’s eyes, wide with shock, suddenly narrow. “Jaina- I understand you feel the urge to experiment. It is natural. You are of age. This is- a phase. It will pass. You have so much time to find someone who you truly feel strongly about.”

 

  “Phases don’t last four years.” She takes a tentative step forwards. “It’s true that I don’t know your name. I hardly know anything about your life prior to hiring you in Stormwind. By the Tides, you’ve even admitted to being a member of the Forsaken… And maybe a sane, rational human being- the kind magi are supposed to be- would be running for Hillsbrad screaming, but funnily enough: I’m not. And besides, if you were a sane, rational elven being, you would have bolted the moment we returned from the first run-in with Arthas. You stayed. You returned to the Keep and marched me out for our first training session. There was a reason you stayed, and it wasn’t the weather.” She reaches for the Lady’s hand, a thrill running up her spine as the red eyes watch their fingers meet. “This is a bad time for all of this… I imagined having this conversation on a windswept beach by candlelight, and without the imminent threat of discovery by the Scourge, and we would’ve even had the chance to bathe first. But I refuse to wait until one of us dies. So this’ll have to do.” She tugs gently until the Lady steps forwards, eyes boring into Jaina’s. “I love you,” she says, as matter-of-factly as she can manage. “There. Do with that what you will.”

 

  The Lady sucks a long, deep breath in. Before Jaina can react, she turns away and folds her arms, hunched into herself. “Fuck. _Fuck,_ ” she hisses, and Jaina’s stomach drops.

 

  “You don’t feel the same way.” Her bottom lip begins to tremble. No, no, she’s fucked it all up, how stupid is she? “It’s- it’s alright, it doesn’t have to make things awkward, I can find someone else when we reach Fair-”

 

  “No,” the Lady grits out, baring her fangs. Jaina’s gut clenches. “I- I had imagined, in my own fool head, taking you to the finest sunrise Azeroth can offer, atop the hills of Eversong. I had imagined us having peace, for once, away from obligations. But that man-child must ruin _everything!_ ” Her fist slams down on the table. “You deserved better than this. I? I am jaded and cold. You are- you are a brazier on an autumn morning, Jaina.”

 

  It is becoming hard to breathe. “You have the mouth of a poet,” she whispers, stepping closer. She wraps her fingers around the Lady’s, white-knuckled and cold, and gently pulls them to her own chest, inching closer until she stands a breath away from her, balanced on her tip toes to stare directly into her eyes.

 

  And she leans in to press her lips against the Lady’s.

 

  For a moment, they remain still, unmoving against hers as she wraps her arm around the slim waist and presses herself even closer; then the Lady moves, and Jaina squeaks as soft lips push onto her own, skilful against her clumsy mouth. Slender elven fingers slide into her hair and she, dizzy and breathless, lets her other hand stroke down to the firm rise of the Lady’s backside again, feels a laugh huffed against her mouth as the fingers tangled in her braid gently pull her forwards to deepen the kiss.

 

  Jaina moans before she can stop herself, feels the answering hum rumble against her own chest as the Lady breaks the kiss. “You humans move fast,” she whispers, breath hot on Jaina’s flushed face. But Jaina cannot summon up the right word for how fast she wishes she could move, so she jerks her forwards instead and presses her lips back against the Lady’s.

 

  Heart beating wildly, she lifts the offending hand up to stroke over the Lady’s cheek, carefully avoiding the scars. An answering grip holds her firmly, securely, against the solid body. For a moment, all she wishes to do is touch, with her mouth and her hands and her body, and she delights in the soft noise the Lady makes as Jaina runs her fingers down her neck.

 

  The lips against hers pull away again, just slightly, and she opens her eyes to see how they gleam in the dim light from her staff. “I do not know if I have mentioned this,” Jaina whispers, amused at how unsteady her own voice is, “but you are a very good kisser. I know I have a low bar set for me, but would you mind if we did that again?”

 

  The Lady’s eyes are intense with something… happy. Joyful. Something she needs to be more often. “Fool mage,” she whispers. “You expect that alone to satisfy me?”

 

-0-0-

 

  The cold gnaws at her skin without the warmth of the hawkstriders they left tethered at a safe distance. Vereesa refuses to stop, for anyone or anything, and her Farstriders know better than to complain; fourteen sets of glowing eyes watch the rapid march of Arthas and his bats in total silence, their only communication rapid hand signals that each woman glances instinctively to.

 

  What does he want here?

 

  Familiar paths, places she has visited at every stage of her life, reek of undeath. It will take years for the forests to recover even from this taint. Vereesa squints forwards, glancing towards the homely gleam of the Spire, barely daring to breathe as they dart from tree to tree like shadows; though her gut roils with nerves, her hands are steady as rocks on her bow. She is, after all, the Ranger-General.

 

  Ahead, the skeletal figures slow, motioning towards the empty, silent buildings of Windrunner Village. One drops to the floor, only a token glance around the glade to check its safety. The rest follow. The glowing horse, tossing its macabre head, neighs as its rider slides off the saddle, and a movement and a series of hollered grunts and hisses sends the riders scattering to rifle through the nearby buildings.

 

  A smile curves her mouth as Vereesa raises her hand. _Wait for my word. Soon we strike._

 

-0-0-

 

  A somewhat smug grin on her face, Sylvanas chances craning down to where Jaina lies curled against her, wrapped in the tatty red cloak. “You fall asleep _now?_ ” Her voice is warm with teasing. “Anar’alah, Jaina.”

 

  “Not asleep,” comes from somewhere around her collarbone. “Merely exploring.” And Sylvanas starts as a warm mouth traces the side of her neck. “I’m sorry!” comes muffled from above her collar. “Is that- I didn’t mean to startle you!”

 

  “You- didn’t,” she grits out. This woman will be the death of her. For sure. “You seem to enjoy that area- too much, I might add.”

 

  Jaina leans backwards, eyes lit with mischief. “And you don’t?”

 

  “Mmmm.”

 

  “I admit, I’ve been wanting to do that for some time now. And besides. That is not an answer.”

 

  “It’s the answer you will get.” She lunges forwards to pin a laughing Jaina to the floor. How ridiculous they must be, when they leave for war in only a few scant minutes. “We do not have much time,” she whispers. “I advise you to use it wisely.”

 

  Jaina doesn’t answer for a moment, eyes locked on Sylvanas’s shoulder, where her shirt has fallen loose. In that second, she wonders if Jaina will ask to remove it- but instead she reaches for the criss-cross of scars, tracing blemishes from hundreds of years ago and a handful of years ago. “I would like to know the story behind these someday,” she says. “This I know-” and she brushes the blue pendant aside to touch a careful finger to the scar from the death knight in Dalaran- “but none of these.”

 

  “Ah, I will not bore you. Trolls and training accidents are not exciting.” She drops to one elbow and brushes Lirath’s tome out of the way, letting her fingers linger for a moment on the leather cover. “But while I have your attention- how unromantic of me, but we need to talk about Arthas.”

 

  Jaina’s smile is tinged with sorrow now. “Yes. I understand… but I ask something in return.”

 

  Sylvanas twitches her ear forwards. “Go ahead.”

 

  “You will not judge me.”

 

  “Judge you? I, a lowly elf, judge you?” Oh, if only Jaina knew how the woman she held had been judged.

 

  “Promise me.” Jaina’s little finger taps her nose. “No judgment?”

 

  She links their fingers without hesitation this time. “Tell me.”

 

  “I knew he was raising bodies in Lordaeron.” Jaina’s smile drops away. “You must understand- he knew how to treat a girl who had lost those dearest to her. After my brother Derek died, he maintained that I could never be too much bother for him- so what were a few books from Dalaran’s restricted library to me? I had no idea what they contained- he implied Uther must have requested them. I suppose I wilfully ignored the question of why he didn’t get them himself.”

 

  Sylvanas exhales hard, teeth already gritted with fury. Only an incredibly talented mage would be able to lay hands on such books. Arthas had known exactly what to do. “He is foul. Books he used to increase his knowledge of the arcane?”

 

  “No… merely how to twist it.” Jaina’s voice trembles. “I knew he had found the bodies of rabbits and foxes, and he was re-animating them, and- I didn’t tell Terenas. I was frightened he would blame me for getting Arthas the tools he needed. I told Calia instead. Terenas was rather strict, but so was she, and she had a way of making Arthas do as she asked, even though he hated her for it.” She nestles closer, head bent. “Arthas told me that it was a good thing. That he was giving them another chance at life. But- it wasn’t life. They existed to serve him. They did whatever he told them to.”

 

  Sylvanas nods slowly. “Like those we face now. Such servitude must be agony.”

 

  “Sometimes he told them to dance. Sometimes he told them to jump into fire.” Jaina wipes furiously at her cheek; Sylvanas doesn’t realise her own hand has reached instinctively up until warm water dribbles down her fingers and Jaina gives her a watery smile. “See, you can be romantic!”

 

  “I don’t want my blanket getting wet.” That, at the very least, gives Jaina a tiny giggle. “Tell me more.”

 

  A deep breath rattles through Jaina’s chest. “Calia confronted him. Uther believed that Arthas had strayed from the Light and Calia was worried for him and his future as a paladin… Nobody has seen Calia since Arthas left for Northrend, and that’s because he killed her. She interrupted him as he raised the essence of his mother- his own mother- and drained it into his blade. And when she screamed, he ran her through. And then he brought her back, just as he wanted, as an obedient and adoring sister who fawned over him.”

 

  As her shoulders begin to shake, Sylvanas wraps her arms around her; swollen eyes stare up at her. “Jaina… I am sorry you had to witness such barbarism. They were good people.”

 

  “But I didn’t-”

 

  “You didn’t tell Terenas?” Jaina’s head jerks down. “That stubborn old king would not have believed you. For all that is good and noble about him, he still thinks his son a beacon of Light, a soul that can be redeemed.”

 

  “Arthas loved his father so much. Admired him.”

 

  “Maybe once.” And Sylvanas leaves it at that.

 

  At length, eyes tracking the sun’s approach, Jaina sighs. “Nothing I just told you is of any military use at all. None of it. You must think me an awful tactician.”

 

  “No. And it doesn’t have to be.” Jaina might not believe it to be, but oh, Sylvanas has an idea brewing. One she can quietly ruminate on, as light finally creeps into the room and she gently extracts herself to start tugging her armour back on.

 

  “How do you know of King Terenas’ temperament? You spoke as though you knew him.”

 

  Sylvanas hums, busied with the straps of her shoulderguards. “Not really. When the Scourge attacked the Violet Keep, Terenas ran out to find his son. A weakness he would do well to address.”

 

  “I hope you do not think that same weakness would stop me.” Jaina’s voice is edged with steel now, reaching for her staff with a hand as steady as any helmsperson’s. “I would not hesitate.”

 

  “Oh, I can believe that.”

 

  “And then you will take me to this sunrise you speak of, and we will drink to his death.”

 

  Sylvanas smiles, mirthlessly. “Yes. We will. Are you ready?” Jaina nods. “Then we continue together.”

 

-0-0-

 

  The last bat rider to emerge from the armoury is too busy with its goods to notice the skeleton beside it drop to the floor, a cluster of arrows in its brain. So busy that it does not even have time to deposit its load before it too is sent careering to the floor with a head full of ammunition and the death knight’s head snaps up with a snarl.

 

  “DESTROY THEM!” roars his sepulchral voice, and Vereesa cringes backwards as the bony horse rears with a screech and storms towards the tree cover where Velonara and Clea are perched; they leap out of his way only to duck the bat riders’ sizzling black arrows as the death knight’s head turns and Arthas’s blazing white eyes meet hers, narrowed in delight.

 

  “Ranger-General,” he growls, and charges.

 

  Vereesa leaps back into the nearest tree and dives for one three elves’ width back from it, stomach twisting at a blood-curdling cry that leaves her in no doubt as to Clea’s fate but she must keep her footing steady even as Arthas pauses for the briefest of moments and extends a hand back towards the clearing-

 

  “You trained that one well,” he grins, mouth a rictus of sharp teeth, and Vereesa’s rangers shriek as one. “To me, my new servant! Glory for you if you bring me her head!”

 

  Vereesa twists just far enough to get off a shot that impales one of the bat riders lunging for Velonara, sending him thudding into the undergrowth for her second in command to finish off even as Arthas raises his blade towards her and guides his mount through the marshy undergrowth. In a movement too swift for him to react to she tugs a dagger from her belt and flings it at one of the plaguebats’ legs, gritting her teeth in silent victory as it shrieks and bucks its rider a near fathom clear, but the tiny pause costs her dear and the great black teeth of the horse are snapping at her feet as she jumps-

 

-0-0-

 

  “What is that?” The Lady’s ears have picked up something too faint for Jaina’s. Swerving, flicking her ears this way and that, she has an arrow nocked within a split second, motioning for Jaina to stay close as she moves silently forwards through the tree line. “There is- duck!”

 

  Jaina flings herself to the ground as the Lady peppers the underbelly of a plaguebat with arrows, sending it careening to the ground with a furious screech and the skeletal rider with it. “Shindu fallah’na!” she hisses as Jaina bathes it in flames. “But who-”

 

  Her voice breaks off as she catches sight of something. Jaina follows her gaze, squinting, but catches only a glimpse of a green-cloaked high elf bounding from branch to branch before the Lady bolts forwards, tugging her by the hand. “Shield yourself,” she whispers and leaps up into the leaves.

 

-0-0-

 

  A snarling elf crashes into the tree beside her and Vereesa’s mouth hangs open as Clea, eyes burning red, slashes wildly at her with her blade. “You will not escape!” she screams, forcing Vereesa to duck back to another bough; enormous incisors scrape her boot even as the earth around the creature’s hooves bubbles and it shrieks, struggling to free its limbs from the miry ground. “I will take you with me!”

 

  Clea leaps forwards.

 

  And drops in mid-air, a red-fletched arrow protruding from her skull.

 

  Vereesa dives past her, leaving the corpse to thud to the forest floor, and looses one, two, three shots at the remaining bat riders to send them scurrying back into the sky with grisly screeches. Snarling, Arthas yanks on the reins and tugs his mount to the right, kicking it into a gallop and thudding away into the night before Vereesa can loose an accurate shot at his retreating back.

 

  Breathing heavily, she drops from the tree line and covers Clea’s corpse with the dark green Farstrider’s cloak. “I am so sorry,” she whispers, and turns back towards the rangers clustered behind her. “We will return to bury her. Arthas fled for Windrunner Spire. We still have a chance.” Concealed from their view, she snaps the arrow in Clea’s head in half and stuffs the shaft in her hip pouch. “Quickly, sisters- there is still hope!”

 

  _What if it’s hers? What do you do then?_ Vereesa swallows bile. Clea’s killer was no friend of Arthas’s. But to think she could be so close-

 

  No. She cannot hold out such hopes. Her attention is demanded by the death knight charging towards her home. She brushes the mud from her leggings and rushes to catch up with her Farstriders.

 

-0-0-

 

  Jaina’s entire body relaxes as the Lady drops down out of the trees, breathing hard, and tugs her behind a fence. “He is gone,” she murmurs.

 

  Wordlessly, Jaina wraps one arm around her waist, shakes the heat from the other. “I couldn’t get a clear shot at Invincible-”

 

  “Is that what it’s called? It doesn’t live up to its name. You did a fine job of boiling the ground.” The Lady swerves, ears twitching this way and that. “Fourteen Farstriders, and fourteen only. I would speak to this Ranger-General.”

 

  “How do you-”

 

  “They pursue him back to the Village,” the Lady interrupts, hand clenched white-knuckled on her bow. She turns back to Jaina. “Do you want to engage him in combat?”

 

  Jaina swallows hard. “I told you, I would not hesitate.”

 

  “Words are a simple matter.” But the Lady’s voice is gentle, and the fingers that wrap around Jaina’s even more so. “I understand if you wish to remain concealed.”

 

  “And risk you left defenceless?”

 

  “This entire forest is my defence, Jaina.”

 

  “I’m going after him. The sooner his head is on a spike in Silvermoon, the sooner I can begin my years of grovelling to get back in Mother’s good books.” She smiles softly and snatches her staff back up, presses one quick kiss to the Lady’s mouth. “And I’m owed a picnic with a sunrise.”

 

  “Yes, you are.” And they are off without another word.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Anar’endal dracon, where is he?” The tracks beneath Vereesa’s fingertips, horseshoes splattered with ashy mud, seem to vanish as soon as they touch the track up to the Spire. “Can that thing fly?”

 

  “I hope not,” Kalira mutters beside her. “But it would give me a good clear shot.”

 

  “Vereesa!” Anya’s voice, shaken but strong, carries through the plaza. “There are more corpses here. Ones we didn’t kill.”

 

  “Scourge?”

 

  By the time she straightens up Velonara is already prodding at the cold remains of the abomination, another ranger kicking the plaguebat sprawled nearby. “There’s an arrow in its leg. Vereesa, are we missing any besides-?” She makes a choked noise and looks away.

 

  Vereesa takes a deep breath and glances around. “No, we number thirteen. Is it red?”

 

  “Yes.” It means nothing to Velonara, clearly. And why should it? Lady Moon was not the only elf to use such feathers… only the dearest to Vereesa. “But its face has been burnt. And look.” She holds up a single frostbolt, only partially melted. “A mage has been here. A mage with archery skills? The last I knew was Lirath.”

 

  Taking a step further up the path, Vereesa reaches out for the wards around her home. “Nobody and nothing has breached the Spire,” she says. “We did not destroy Arthas, but we dealt a blow to his forces that he won’t forget. Return to Fairbreeze, sisters. I will search for this mage.”

 

  “Alone, Ranger-General?”

 

  “You think me incapable of dealing with a single spellcaster? I will not be far behind you.”

 

  They do not look happy about it, but they filter away, disappearing into the woods where Clea fell. Vereesa nocks an arrow and melts back into the forest cover herself, as still as the stone of the plaza even as her heart thuds in her ears.

 

-0-0-

 

  Sylvanas pauses at the entrance to the village to count the tracks. Still only thirteen, she sighs to herself as she straightens and motions Jaina forwards; she had hoped that the Ranger-General might have called other forces to Windrunner Village if she herself planned an ambush here, but no, Vereesa remains as impetuous as ever. “Do you see anything?” she says under her breath, and Jaina shakes her head. “Good.”

 

  Footsteps sound to their right and Jaina throws a cloaking spell over them both before Sylvanas can even open her mouth. The elves fly by, faces set grimly, in the direction of Clea’s body. She bows her head and whispers a prayer to the Sunwell before rising slowly and beckoning Jaina along with her.

 

  “Are we hiding from them?” Jaina whispers. “They are your people!”

 

  “I… thought they might be Arthas’s forces. Anar’alah, it is useless. If they have gone, so has he.”

 

  Jaina dispels the illusion and stands up straight. “Then we need to go. We don’t have much time.”

 

  “Yes. Just… rest here for a moment.” And she turns to stride up the path towards the Spire.

 

  For a painful second, memories assault her: memories of Lirath wandering down this path with his lute, of Alleria running to greet her from her first day of training. Of standing in a sun-kissed room, admiring herself in the mirror, how her hair gleamed like molten silk and her skin glowed. She grits her teeth and shoves them away, reaching instead for the spellwork woven around the Spire, searching through it for any hint of disturbance that could betray Arthas’s presence.

 

  Nothing. She lets the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding out and releases the wards. “There.” She turns back to Jaina. “Onward.”

 

  Jaina nods once, turns and starts walking back towards the entrance to the Village. Sylvanas spares one last look back at the Spire, shining in the dim sunlight, and starts after her-

 

  A blade touches to her throat and she freezes. “Do not cry out,” a familiar voice whispers. “She won’t want to see this.”

 

  “Hello, Little Moon,” Sylvanas hisses. “A fine way to repay me for saving your life.”

 

  And she drives an elbow into Vereesa’s stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I am doing the Sylvaina right!!! This was (maybe) my favourite chapter to write so I hope it was good to read.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :D
> 
> Quick edit: I realised at 3am I did a stupid on the continuity! Arthas was, in this universe, already a death knight when Daelin and Tandred Proudmoore were killed. So now he took advantage of Jaina mourning for Derek. He's still an asshat. :3


	8. In Which Jaina Finds Out about Sylvanas

  _Windrunner Village, Eversong Woods, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms_

“Saving my life? What about the lives you cost with your treachery?” Vereesa shrieks. Her eyes have a wild sheen to them. “You- you stole my sister from me!”

 

  Sylvanas flinches. One hand reaches, on instinct, for her blade. “Your sister never stood a chance! You and all of Silvermoon turned their backs on her of their own volition, Vereesa! You never even tried to defend me!”

 

  “How could I, with all the evidence I didn’t have?” Vereesa’s voice breaks. “You who- who was so beloved… enough!” She lunges forwards and Sylvanas flings her sword up into a messy parry. “You speak to me of cowardice, but you let Arthas destroy your Prince for you!”

 

  “I let nothing of the sort!” She feints to one side and slashes at Vereesa’s thigh but her sister dives clear. “I would never have betrayed him!”

 

  “Then why did you run?” Vereesa cries. There are tears dripping down her face now. “Why did you run, Sylvanas?”

 

  “Because you gave me no choice! I could not destroy Arthas if you had me executed, sister!”

 

  “DO NOT CALL ME THAT!” Vereesa screams and charges-

 

  Ice solidifies around her and traps her screeching and writhing within it as Jaina runs towards Sylvanas. “Why is she attacking you? She’s a ranger- we’re on their side…” Trailing off in confusion, she stares at Sylvanas, chewing on her bottom lip.

 

  “She mistook me for a traitor.” Sylvanas takes a deep breath, eyes fixed on Vereesa’s. “You can unfreeze her now.”

 

  A lilac shield forms around them both in the second before the ice vaporises and Vereesa drops to the floor, shivering. “You found a mage to aid you? Can her shields block-” A green-fletched arrow glances harmlessly off the shield. “Fuck.”

 

  “Speak in Common! What do you think you’re doing?” Jaina snaps. “You dare attack the bodyguard of Lady Jaina Proudmoore?”

 

  Vereesa’s jaw goes slack. “She- she what?”

 

  “Do I need to repeat myself? You do speak Common?”

 

  “No, she speaks Common very well, Jaina.” Sylvanas glances between them, Jaina’s thunderous face, Vereesa’s dumb disbelief. “Do not harm her.”

 

  “Is she a Ranger you worked with?”

 

  “I suppose that’s accurate. Vereesa, can we do this somewhere else-”

 

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Vereesa bursts out. She draws her blade again, fangs bared. “How could you do this to Kul Tiras, too? It was bad enough you betrayed your own people!”

 

  Jaina gulps. The fireball sizzling in her right hand dissipates in a cloud of ash. “What… is she talking about?” she says, quietly.

 

  “Vereesa, if you must do this here, can we please speak in Thala-”

 

  “Stop! I fought for you. I did.” Vereesa wipes furiously at her face with the hand not clutching her weapon. “Even now, I fight for you. But I cannot find one fucking sliver of proof that you didn’t let him in to Silvermoon. I don’t even know what you were doing the night before Kael’thas died!”

 

  “Kael’thas?” Jaina takes a step away from Sylvanas. One hand goes to the shock of white hair piled to one side of her head. “What… does she mean?”

 

  “You want proof, sister? Truly?” Vibrating with anger, Sylvanas steps forwards and out of the shield; Jaina extends it around her again but she forces it away with a torrent of arcane. “Then you ask your Grand Magister. He knows exactly where I was. Or you could ask your Dar’khan, and while you do- you could ask him how he sleeps at night when he betrays Quel’Thalas to his death knight master in the mornings!”

 

  Vereesa’s blade clatters to the floor, colour rising in her cheeks. “You lie,” she shouts. “Dar’khan is trusted by Lor’themar himself- and by me!”

 

  “Betrayal is an easy discipline, it suits Dar’khan down to the ground.” With a mirthless laugh, Sylvanas steps forwards once more. “And what is worse, I think you know he has, sister. But- here, have this.” She shoves her sword into Vereesa’s hand and turns, stares straight into Jaina’s terrified eyes. “You think I am the traitor of Silvermoon? Then here. I offer you a clear shot.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _Darkshore, Kalimdor_

Shandris has one arm around Tyrande’s waist, guiding her carefully towards the Grove of the Ancients. Darkshore is ever a comforting gloom, but tonight tips towards the pitch black; without the faint glow from Tyrande’s garments, the two would be blind even with their night elven vision.

 

  She may not be a high priestess, but Shandris knows the touch of her Mother Moon as well as any other night elf. For centuries, Elune has been a warm radiance on a shoulder, a comforting gaze from the shadows. Her skin now is cold. The shadows are merely dangerous. “Minn’da, beware the brambles-”

 

  “I see them,” Tyrande says, wearily. Her own power is ample to light their feet, but little more. “There is someone up ahead, Shandris.”

 

  “Elf?” Her blade is already in her hand. “How tall?”

 

  “Yes, a night elf. But who- _you!_ ”

 

  “Fandu-dath-belore?” Shandris cries, jumping in front of Tyrande as the elf before them leaps back. “Reveal yourself!”

 

  “How? There is no light,” the voice responds, and Shandris’s fury dissolves into pure exasperation.

 

  “Maiev. What are you doing here?”

 

  “The same thing you are, I assume. Searching for our gracious goddess.” The ever-present anger in Maiev’s voice is even more venomous than usual. “Or do you believe she too has allied with Arthas?”

 

  “Do not speak so against the Mother Moon, Shadowsong.” Tyrande’s voice is low and dangerous. Shandris catches the glint of her glaive, drawn and poised, beside her. “Leave. Find another hunt to occupy yourself with.”

 

  “I have only just arrived! We are here as allies, Tyrande.” She holds up a hand to forestall Tyrande’s outburst. “No, I will leave you in peace for another ten thousand years after this, High Priestess- but something has happened to Elune. I remain a night elf. I wish to aid you.”

 

  Tyrande draws in a deep breath. Her teeth are bared when Shandris steps back. “Then help us if you must. I have no time for you here- go to Fairbreeze Village in Quel’Thalas and join their fight. This mystery is mine to solve.”

 

  “Quel’Thalas?” For a moment, Maiev’s eyebrows draw together, but in the next moment she straightens her spine and salutes crisply. “As you wish, Tyrande.” Her intense gaze falls on Shandris. “Guard her well, Sentinel.”

 

  “I need no guidance from _you_ as to how to protect our High Priestess,” Shandris snaps.

 

  “I deserved that, I suppose. Ande’thoras-ethil.” There is a grim smirk on Maiev’s face as she stows her warglaive and vanishes into the woods.

 

  Shandris turns, letting out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “Minn’da, do not let her unsettle you,” she says gently. But the eyes that turn to her are intense with purpose, jaw set tightly, and Shandris feels a surge of pride in her chest at the sight of her proud and powerful. As if this wise creature could be rattled by a mere fleck such as Maiev Shadowsong. “Here.” And she tugs her cloak off to set it on the cold, wet ground. “I will build a fire.”

 

  “Thank you, my daughter.” Tyrande’s drawn face softens into a smile. “Whatever we find, Shandris- whatever has happened here- I am ever grateful you will face it with me.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _Windrunner Village, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms- as Jaina prepares to strike_

 

  “You are- you are cruel!” A fist thuds into the back of Sylvanas’s head and drives the breath out of her; she hears Jaina cry out as she topples sideways. The blade clatters down beside her. “You left me here, on my own- so soon after Alleria- do you know how enormous the Spire is without you? Without her, without Lirath?” Hands grab the front of Sylvanas’s tunic and yank her forwards to stare into Vereesa’s bulging eyes. “I cannot walk through Silvermoon without fingers pointing. People staring. I could not even stomach my own Ranger-General celebration. My boys- my boys go to school in Dalaran for the shame of what people here know about me! Spare me your tales of suffering, Lady Moon! Even my husband stands shamed within the Kirin Tor for you!”

 

  “Shamed? Why, my poor sister!” Sylvanas rips the shaking fingers from her tunic and kicks Vereesa hard in the stomach, throwing her backwards with a yelp. “I have spent all these years running from anything familiar- my name spat on by every official from here to Quel’Danas. They believe me a monster! I do not see the Kirin Tor turning on Rhonin, the way you closed ranks against me!”

 

  “The proof- it was all against you-”

 

  “What proof?” She lunges upwards, snatches her own weapon off the floor. “And who gave you that proof?”

 

  “Dar’khan-”

 

  “Anar’endal dracon, he must think you easier to play than Lirath’s lute.” But her face softens as she glances to the tear tracks on Vereesa’s face. “You did not kill me. I owe you thanks for that.”

 

  “You know him to be a traitor?” Vereesa chews her bottom lip, one hand stretched awkwardly for her bow. “Do _you_ have proof?”

 

  “Rommath does.” She narrows her eyes in silent challenge. “And he has Lor’themar’s ear.”

 

  Glancing towards the forest, Vereesa shifts from one leg to the other. “I must catch up with my Farstriders. They will think harm has come to me and raise the alarm if I do not. Let us end this, Sylvanas.”

 

  From somewhere behind her, Jaina makes a strangled noise and turns away.

 

  Vereesa turns to her, forehead furrowed, but continues. “You still- you still have Alleria’s necklace, I hope.”

 

  Sylvanas swallows hard, her own gaze fixed on Jaina’s grim expression. One hand slides past her cloak to the cold gemstone beneath. “You would not ask me to-”

 

  “Hand it to me. I will keep it safe, I promise. Let me take it to Rommath and tell him I know… and we will see how he reacts.”

 

  “For you, Vereesa.” She stows her blade once again and bends her neck, reaches round to untie her cloak and lets it fall to the floor as her fingers set to work behind her head.

 

  There’s a moment of silence. Vereesa squints, fidgeting with a loose thread on her jerkin. Jaina glances round nervously.

 

  Sylvanas bares her fangs, hands still behind her head.

 

  Vereesa finally takes a step forwards. “You are wearing it?”

 

  “Anar’alah! Of course I am! Of all times, the clasp is stuck in my hair.”

 

  “Stay still,” Jaina says suddenly. “I’ll help you.” She marches forwards, the hand glowing with arcane power still stretched towards Vereesa, and brushes Sylvanas’s hands away to begin fiddling with the clasp. “By the Tides, it really is- sorry about this…” And Sylvanas winces as she rips the necklace free. “Sorry. It’ll grow back.”

 

  She lets the necklace fall into her own hand, winces and drops it hurriedly into Sylvanas’s. “It has some kind of protective enchantment on it. Burned a bit when I tried to pry. We’ll come with you,” she says to Vereesa. “And when you reach your Farstriders, we can hang back so none of them try to shoot… Sylvanas… either.”

 

  Her heart lurches at the hesitancy in Jaina’s voice. Gritting her teeth, Sylvanas stretches out and places the necklace in Vereesa’s palm. “That may be for the best.”

 

  “You killed Clea. You did save me.” Vereesa tugs a red-fletched arrow from her hip pouch and carefully, reverently, places the necklace in it instead. “I will use that as proof for you. I will. But I cannot guarantee your safety if you approach Fairbreeze.”

 

  Sylvanas snorts. “Perhaps the army of undead marching towards it is my better bet, sister?”

 

  “Don’t even joke about it,” Vereesa mutters. “You ever had a twisted sense of humour. I will tell the Farstriders to advance without me. Follow- at a distance.” And she races away into the forest, one hand on her pouch.

 

  Sylvanas massages the back of her neck, exhaling hard through her teeth. “Well.” She turns to Jaina, who watches her silently, and attempts a smile. “You were curious about… and now you know. I understand if you no longer wish for this.” One hand gestures vaguely between them. “It will not offend me.”

 

  Jaina says nothing. For a long moment, Sylvanas wonders if she truly has blown it, and her stomach plummets into her boots- and then Jaina extends her hand. “Good to meet you at last, Sylvanas. My name is Jaina Proudmoore. I’m a sorceress. And, Tides help me, I have a fondness for women with secrets.”

 

  A true grin breaking out onto her face, Sylvanas takes the proffered hand, only for Jaina to tug her forwards to press a kiss to her cheek.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Not far enough from Fairbreeze Village, Eversong Woods, Quel’Thalas_

Dar’khan steps out of a portal and barely has time to let out a squeal before Arthas grabs him by the throat and lifts him, bodily, from the ground.

 

  “She wasn’t there,” he growls. “Only the damned elves!” The half-rotted face of the high elf in Kirin Tor robes behind him twists in indignation, but he remains silent. “I put my faith in you, Drathir!”

 

  “But your Majesty, that is where the enchantment placed her!”

 

  “No. That is where it placed her bodyguard.” Arthas’s eyes are mere slits; Invincible snorts, tossing his head. “You told me you could trace her, even to the Twisting Nether-”

 

 “Your Majesty, Thyala could not risk enchanting anything of Proudmoore’s for fear she would sense it, but it was indeed possible to hide it from one who is not a mage- and she never leaves Proudmoore’s side! Never!”

 

  “Where is it now?”

 

  Dar’khan gasps with relief as Arthas drops him back to the ground. “One moment, your Majesty… and understand that I can only do this a handful of times before Proudmoore senses my magicks.” What a shock he had had when he had seen none other than Sylvanas Windrunner at Proudmoore’s side. Suddenly he was deeply grateful for his rude rebuttal at Proudmoore Keep.

 

  Squinting into the brilliant mist that appears before him, Dar’khan slowly works it into something more tangible. The decomposing mage leans forwards. “It makes for Fairbreeze with all haste.”

 

  “I’m not sure I believe you, elf. If this Windrunner is to be shot dead upon sight, why would she go anywhere near Fairbreeze?”

 

  “Proudmoore is a powerful mage, she will disguise her!” In truth, Dar’khan can’t figure out why Sylvanas would risk it either, but apparently her time amongst humans has dulled that once-sharp brain. “They must be together, your Majesty- Proudmoore has feelings for her-”

 

  “You lie,” Arthas hisses, and Dar’khan jumps as Frostmourne hisses into full luminance, inches from his neck. “That- that _woman-_ is just that, a woman! And an elf at that!”

 

  The brief, arcane-soaked glimpse of a deep kiss says otherwise, but the runeblade inching closer to his oesophagus tells Dar’khan it is time to stop talking. “I only mean- they are good friends!” The blade falls back to Arthas’s side. “You have been very clear about-”

 

  “Go back to Fairbreeze. We launch our feint immediately. With luck, we will find Jaina and kill this Windrunner woman quickly enough that she won’t cause a problem.” Arthas drums his fingers on his pauldron. There is a glint in his eye that Dar’khan dislikes enormously. “Wait- I rescind that. I want Windrunner alive.” He turns and addresses the mage over his shoulder. “You hear me?”

 

  “Yes, your Majesty!”

 

  “Why?” It’s not Dar’khan’s place to ask, but he would so much rather Sylvanas be reduced to another corpse in a meat wagon. Alive, she is a thorn in Dar’khan’s backside. “She was Ranger-General once. She is a powerful fighter in her own right.”

 

  Arthas nods. “I hope she is. All the better if she is.”

 

  What? “But- your Majesty, you do not want to fight her one to one?”

 

  He brays with sudden, sepulchral laughter that sets Dar’khan’s skin to goosebumps. “I fear nothing! You told me Jaina was close to her. It will be good for Jaina to have a friend. I have the perfect role in mind.”

 

  Is Arthas prone to madness? “She would never ally with you-”

 

  “I’m not interested in giving her a choice.” He glances back towards the skeletal high elf. “Where was it you said this could be performed? Tirisfal Glades?”

 

  “Yes, your Majesty. I know exactly where.”

 

  “Good. Go back to Fairbreeze and be seen to fight, Drathir. Go easy on my forces. It’s exhausting getting them on their feet again. Mage- we will find our way to Quel’Danas.” Arthas turns and beckons Invincible over, rubbing the bony muzzle to soft whickers from the horse, oblivious to the horror on Dar’khan’s face. “My people- we ride on Fairbreeze to crush the living!”

 

-0-0-

 

  _Also not far enough from Fairbreeze Village, Eversong Woods, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms_

“I have some questions.”

 

  The Dark Lady- Sylvanas- could not look less surprised. “I imagine you do.”

 

  The silence they have thus far walked in is a comfortable one; Jaina’s fingers are tucked in hot elven ones, her shoulders once again warmed by a tatty enchanted cloak. The Lady- _Sylvanas-_ had stared when Jaina reached for her hand. As though they hadn’t lain kissing the breath out of each other a scant hour ago. “So you are a Windrunner.”

 

  “Yes. Not quite as auspicious as House Proudmoore, but Vereesa’s done well enough.”

 

  Jaina smiles to herself. “I had wondered if you had been an architect. I guess you were right about my detective skills.” In truth, she does feel a little foolish. Four years is a long time to know someone- but the Lady was never secretive that she had secrets. And, she reminds herself as Sylvanas gently steers her round a dip in the forest floor, actions speak louder than words. “I should have guessed Vereesa was your sister straight away.”

 

  “She is. For my sins.”

 

  “You look alike… you do! You both have those beautiful high cheekbones.”

 

  “Keep talking.”

 

  “I always wanted a sister, you know. But maybe I’ll skip the part about her trying to kill me.” To her relief, the Lady- _Sylvanas!_ \- huffs a low laugh. “You must have missed her.”

 

  “I kept myself occupied.”

 

  “And you were there… when Kael’thas died.” Sylvanas turns her head away, but nods. “Why were you blamed?”

 

  “That is a long-”

 

  “I’d be amazed if it wasn’t a long story. But we have a long walk.”

 

  “Impudent mage… I was Ranger-General.” She holds up her free hand as Jaina draws a deep breath in. “Yes- your mother spent months feeding information directly to me, among others. We knew of Arthas’s work within necromancy, though clearly you did not tell us everything.” Jaina’s cheeks flush a little. “I was given twenty-four hours to prepare Silvermoon for Kael’thas’s speech. He was blissfully unaware that it was the anniversary of- a break-up- belore, enough lies! Of my sister’s disappearance. My sister Alleria. You may have seen her statue in Stormwind.”

 

  “The high elf general who disappeared in-” Jaina’s stomach drops. _In Outland._ “Oh Sylvanas, I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

 

  Sylvanas’s jaw clenches. “I protested the timing to Kael’thas, but a reliable source-” her lips twist into a snarl- “had told him Arthas was weakened by events in Northrend. So, as a truly competent Ranger-General would, I told my Farstriders to sweep the city and sank myself in cheap wine.” Her voice drips with self-loathing. “An elf named Thyala Dawnbloom came to me and offered to sign the nobles in. It was meant to be my job. You must think me a fool, even by now.”

 

  “No.” Heart aching, Jaina gently unravels their hands and wraps her arm around Sylvanas’s waist instead.

 

  Sylvanas exhales hard, slipping her own arm around Jaina to navigate them past a patch of thorny bramble. “Thyala used this freedom to smuggle Arthas himself into the city. He used an anagram of your name to hide. The next day, Thyala was nowhere to be seen and you know the rest.”

 

  She flinches as Jaina reaches with her other hand to explore the scars seared into her cheeks. “You recall I spoke of defending a procession?” And as Jaina nods: “Kael’thas’s cavalcade. But by the time I realised where that brute Arthas was… I had already failed in my duty to Kael’thas.”

 

  Jaina allows herself to trace along Sylvanas’s jawline. “My mother mentioned once, after quite a lot of rum, that she was stood directly beside the Ranger-General when- it happened.” Sylvanas merely nods, gaze so sad that Jaina feels her chest clench; suddenly desperate to steer the conversation away from such emotional waters, she summons an impish smile. “She also mentioned that the Ranger-General greeted her by knocking her off her feet.”

 

  She has to bite back a laugh as the tips of Sylvanas’s ears turn red. “Do _not_ remind her of that!”

 

  “I’ll keep it for a moment when I can truly embarrass you. Where did you go after… after that?”

 

  “Odd jobs through Forsaken leads. And then I was informed that your own bodyguard had retired.” She turns and fixes Jaina with an odd expression. “I did not only fail in my duty to Silvermoon that day. I failed in my duty to you. It was only right that I do what I could for you.”

 

  Jaina swallows hard. Her arm goes rigid around Sylvanas’s body. This- all of this- was some twisted sense of obligation? “He- he wasn’t your doing, either-”

 

  “Do _not_ try to console me!” Sylvanas rips away from her, folds her arms over her chest and growls in the back of her throat. “I was Ranger-General. He died on my watch. I am not allowed comfort.”

 

  Something sharp and cold lodges into Jaina’s stomach. “I am familiar with betrayal,” she says in a low voice. “And grief. You are not alone in making mistakes.” Sylvanas continues to stare at the ground, not giving an inch, so Jaina pushes. “I hope you are not here with me because you feel you owe it to me… I would rather you told me you felt nothing for me than that.”

 

  She’s amazed to hear Sylvanas laugh. “You think I’m here because-? Really?”

 

  “Isn’t that what you said?”

 

  “Maybe, but it’s not what I meant. At first I despised the cold and the wet and the mud. I could barely understand your slang and your ridiculous humour. Your people stared and whispered behind their hands. I suppose I sympathise with Vereesa for that. But you? I never found you anything other than kind.”

 

  Jaina manages a deep breath. “So you’re not here because you feel tied to me?”

 

  “As if anyone could tie me to themselves.” Jaina rolls her eyes. “No, that’s not why I stayed. Others would have paid several times what your mother could, but I would have missed you. And that is the last admission I will make.”

 

  “One more.”

 

  “Belore, what now?”

 

  “You truly meant your speech with the sunset? And that you returned my sentiment?” She doesn’t want to push it- Sylvanas has said more today than in the four years prior- but every part of her wants to hear those words spoken, out loud, by Sylvanas. “Specifically, the part where I said I love you.”

 

  Sylvanas sighs. “Yes, I did. I know what you’re trying to do. My heart is not that hard yet, _dalah’surfal._ ”

 

  “You cheat! You can’t switch to Thalassian! You could have said anything!” Jaina shoves her hard, pouting at the gasp of laughter she receives in return. “Fine. You win, for now. But consider the gauntlet thrown down.”

 

  “I’m trembling in my boots.”

 

  “Good.” Jaina bares her teeth. She aches to pull Sylvanas closer, but there is something raw and vulnerable about her that she understands full well herself. “We are close to Fairbreeze?”

 

  “Within minutes.” Those crimson eyes regard her steadily. “Find your mother. I will hide among the troops from Kul Tiras.”

 

  “I will gain you entry, sister,” Vereesa says, dodging out from behind a nearby tree; Sylvanas shoots her daggers. “I was not eavesdropping. I needed to tie my shoelace.”

 

  Jaina glances down at Vereesa’s entirely lace-free feet, and elects to say nothing as Sylvanas growls and tugs her hood up until only the proud nose and the long ears are visible.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Eversong Woods, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms_

  This was not a part of Dar’khan’s plan.

 

  He had, on some (in hindsight) pathetic level, trusted the death knight to keep to his word of not attacking the Sunwell. Elune, he could understand; the night elves are a brutal race, after all, and whatever Arthas had allied with beneath Tirisfal Glades had been so insistent he take Teldrassil. But the Sunwell? Ruthless though he might be- and proudly so- Dar’khan remains a high elf, and everything he has done has been for the advancement of his people. Sacrificing a few lives for the good of his race is a price he was willing to endure. The Sunwell is sacred.

 

  He will warn Rommath. A source, a mysterious source, will do- but they need to get fighters to Quel’Danas immediately, or all is lost, and his fingers tremble with panic as he blinks back towards Fairbreeze and through the wall into the magi’s chambers-

 

-0-0-

 

  _Fairbreeze Village, Eversong Woods, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms_

Dar’khan blinks inside and does not have a moment to squeal before Rommath slices his head from his shoulders.

 

  “That’s you dealt with,” he hisses. He flicks one hand and conjures a fire with such fury that Dar’khan is already ashes by the time Rommath reaches the door.

 

  “Grand Magister!” Thankfully, Halduron is so wrapped up in ushering the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras through the doorway that he completely misses the thin trail of smoke behind Rommath. “Lady Proudmoore’s daughter has not yet arrived.”

 

  “What? Jaina?” Rommath’s stomach clenches. “When did you last see her, Lord Admiral?”

 

  Katherine Proudmoore reaches into her greatcoat and tugs out a small, hastily-scrawled note. “She told me she would meet me here. I understand you cannot ask your magi to allow portals, but- but she’s my daughter, Grand Magister.”

 

  Rommath bites his lip. “Perhaps I can scry her. She wrote this?” And as the Lord Admiral nods: “Let me try to track her. Do not fret, Lord Admiral, she is a powerful spellcaster indeed.”

 

  “I believe she has her bodyguard with her,” Katherine offers, and Rommath’s eyebrows rise before he can help himself. “You- you seem surprised?”

 

  “Oh no, no. I merely get to meet this elf at last,” Rommath lies, badly. He lifts the note and squints at it, tracing runes in the air with his free hand; Katherine shifts from one foot to the other, glancing from his fingers to the note and back again. “Give me one moment-”

 

  He reaches for her, narrowing his eyes, but before he can make out anything more than a familiar bronze-leafed forest the spell disintegrates. “Belore! Well, she is in Eversong. I don’t suppose you have anything from her bodyguard?”

 

  “Jaina has trained me well.” She draws a small comb from her satchel, two hairs of familiar silvery-gold dangling from it. “I took this from her chambers.”

 

  “Thank you, Lord Admiral.” He lifts a hand-

 

  The spell is barely a second old before it explodes in his face, sending a thick plume of black smoke up towards the ceiling and setting everyone coughing.

 

  “By the Tides, what did you do?” Katherine rubs furiously at her eyes. Halduron brushes frantically at the still-smouldering embers caught on his leathers. “Did Jaina-?”

 

  “Someone is hiding them from me!” For the first time, panic rises in Rommath’s chest. He swerves to Halduron, stuffing the comb in his pocket. “Brightwing- we need to find them, _now._ I glimpsed some of the woodland between us and Windrunner Village. Take a force and trace them.” Halduron is gone before he can draw breath again. “Lord Admiral-”

 

  “ENEMIES AT THE GATES!” screams a dwarven voice. “WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!”

 

  “Vereesa! VEREESA!” Rommath flies out of the door, Katherine close at his heels, and grabs the nearest Farstrider. “Halduron- go, find Jaina Proudmoore! Find her! Anya, where is Vereesa?”

 

  “Not back, Grand Magister,” she yells over the din of soldiers and sorcerers. Katherine shouts in exasperation and charges to assist her own forces. “She said she would-”

 

  “Anar’alah, there’s no time! Form up with my magi and follow my command!” The Farstrider sprints away into the throng.

 

  He takes a deep breath and raises a short scrying spell to the front gates, only to stagger backwards on weak legs. “How- no, no, shindu fallah’na!”

 

  As the front gate shatters, Rommath closes his eyes and prays to the Sunwell before gathering his power and charging into the battle.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Mere footsteps from Fairbreeze Village_

 

  “Did you hear that?”

 

  Jaina glances from Vereesa to Sylvanas. Their ears swivel forwards, eyebrows pursed, and she can’t help but smile at their identical expressions.

 

  Then they let out a cry and rush forwards, bursting from the tree cover and-

 

  An abomination’s hook nearly takes Vereesa’s leg off at the knee as it crashes down in front of them, giggling manically. “Smashing bugs!” it cries and lifts its rotting arms for another punch only for Jaina to blink them behind it and impale its eye with a frostbolt, sending it careening onto a dozen undead soldiers charging straight for her.

 

  Even as she turns, Vereesa and Sylvanas are already carving their way into the battle, backs pressed together as the undead advance on them only to find themselves frozen near solid by the blizzard Jaina conjures above their heads. All around is chaos as dwarven and tauren and draenei forces hack and batter the corpse army and she throws fireballs and great pyroblasts at another advancing abomination, almost draws its attention from the cluster of tauren working frantically to save a fallen troll until a high elf in Light-encrusted armour leaps into the air and crushes its skull in one blow.

 

  Something wet and warm thuds into her chest and sends her staggering off-balance, her half-formed frostbolt spinning into the sky, and vomit snags in her throat as she peels a human arm from her skirts and throws it to one side without allowing herself to think about the owner’s fate. “Vereesa!” she shouts, and Sylvanas dives in front of her sister to slice a rotting tauren in two. “We need to make for Fairbreeze-”

 

  “This is Fairbreeze,” Vereesa calls, and pushes Sylvanas to the ground as a meat hook flies past her head. “Pay attention, sister!”

 

  Sylvanas kicks out with both legs and sends the ghoul slashing at Vereesa’s back tumbling with a shriek into a troll’s blade. “Same for you!”

 

  _This is Fairbreeze?_ For a moment Jaina stands, staff clutched white-knuckled to her chest, staring at the carnage and the crush of forces of all different colours until her eye catches on a familiar green-

 

  “MOTHER!”

 

  Katherine swerves and Jaina sends an enormous ball of fire soaring over her head to blow the death knight charging at her to pieces as she blinks across the battlefield and surrounds her mother in a shimmering shield. “Jaina,” Katherine gasps, and lunges to one side to crush a desiccated dwarf’s face with her gore-spattered fisticuffs. “Where-?”

 

  “Don’t worry about it, Mother, we’re here now!” She brings down another great blizzard on the undead, batters the ghoul swiping at her ankles with her staff and squints through the stream of icy missiles towards Sylvanas and Vereesa. They are fighting like wild panthers, clambering on top of the pile of corpses to continue battling, but their backs are perilously close to the wall and even as she rains flames down upon the undead in front of her she takes a step back towards them-

 

  A death knight charges Vereesa and pins her to the wall and Sylvanas swerves to slice it through in the same second a skeletal mage in rotting Kirin Tor robes extends an arm and hauls her into the air with glittering arcane tendrils.

 

  “No!” She throws out an arm and grabs hold of the spell as it wraps around Sylvanas’s throat; Vereesa stabs a ghoul in the rotting belly and charges the mage but it sidesteps her and batters her away with arcane missiles, eyes fixed on Jaina.

 

  “Jaina Proudmoore, do not be worried,” it crunches out, jaw misaligned, and stretches its free hand for her. An icy cold snakes around her throat and Jaina’s spell shatters, panic racing through her as her feet leave the ground-

 

  The mage’s jaw flies off as Katherine Proudmoore socks it in the face and the arcane bindings flicker just enough for Jaina to dispel them entirely and slow their falls as the mage hastily dodges a second blow to its head and blinks away beyond its own force’s lines.

 

  Shaking the ichor and gore off her fisticuff, Katherine strides towards them only for Vereesa to bowl her aside and throw her arms around Sylvanas the second her boots touch the ground. “She’s… found a friend?” she says drily to Jaina, rubbing her arm.

 

  “I’ll have to tell you in a bit. Thank you, Mother.” Jaina turns on her heel and immolates a skeleton lunging towards them. But even as she flings streams of fire and frost on those ghouls and creatures shambling towards her, the more sentient undead are snarling in frustration and backing away from living fighters, glancing round for escape routes, forced into evasion and cut down in pincer movements. “Are we- have we won?”

 

  Katherine gathers her close, strokes her sweaty hair out of her face. “For now,” she whispers. “Jaina, I’ve never seen you like that before. You were magnificent.”

 

  She sniffles and presses her face into her mother’s dirtied tunic. In the corner of her eye, she glimpses Vereesa striding towards a gaggle of high elven magi and rangers, gesticulating wildly. “So were you, mother. I will ever tell the tale of when my mother punched a man so hard his jaw fell off.”

 

  “And I will ever be single if you do,” Katherine chuckles.

 

  Jaina squeezes her tight and slowly, carefully stands straight, tugging her robes back into place. “Attend to your forces, Mother. Syl- the Lady and I will be along shortly.”

 

  Katherine nods and tugs a waterskin from her pocket. “Wait- no, not that one.” And she throws it aside and brings out a half bottle of rum. “Much better.” Swigging it neat, she turns and strides back towards what is left of the Kul Tiran tents.

 

  “Do you think she has another one of those?” Sylvanas croaks behind Jaina. One hand is still massaging her neck and the thin red marks from the arcane tendrils; Jaina hurries towards her, touches gentle fingers to her chin and tilts her head back. “It’s fine. Are you alright?”

 

  “I am.” She leans in and touches her lips to the angriest of the marks, kisses along until she feels the vibrations of a soft groan against her mouth. “Sorry- did that hurt?”

 

  “No, not at all,” Sylvanas says, eyes heavily lidded.

 

  She shakes her head, a smile forming on her lips. “Go to the Kul Tiran tent and find a healer. No- I insist,” she murmurs as Sylvanas opens her mouth. “Find a healer. Just in case. Even though that husky voice is rather inviting.” Sylvanas rolls her eyes. “I need to speak to Vereesa.”

 

  “What about?”

 

  “Not you, for once. We fought a battle here today, but we both know we didn’t win the war… and that was a Kirin Tor mage we just fought. Antonidas needs to know. Now go.” She presses one final kiss to Sylvanas’s cheek and squeaks with surprise as Sylvanas twists until their lips meet instead, letting herself close her eyes for one blissful moment before Sylvanas pulls away and tucks a tangled lock of white hair behind her ear.

 

  “To your duties, Lady Proudmoore,” she says gently, and marches away towards the healers’ chambers.

 

-0-0-

 

  The stench of fire and decay hanging over Fairbreeze continues even into the rooms Rommath and the other magi have been using, but Vereesa has no time to examine the pile of ashes in one room as she marches down and grabs Rommath by the shoulder. “Can we talk?”

 

  “What’s wrong? I was informed you were uninjured.” Rommath continues wiping gore from his staff, mouth pinched. “But I would like to know why you were so late to return to Fairbreeze. We were concerned for-”

 

  She tugs Sylvanas’s pendant from her pouch and watches, poker faced, as the blood drains from his cheeks. “I know, Rommath. I know you know,” she says, just as her sister wished.

 

  And her fists clench as he simply sighs and draws a chair forwards to sit down, leaning his staff against the wall. “You found her,” he says quietly. “Good. Was Jaina with her?”

 

  “Yes. I _know_ , Rommath.” It is becoming hard to breathe. Vereesa swallows hard, grip painful around the cool gem. How many times has he walked away from her, knowing Sylvanas was falsely accused? How many times had he walked with her to the Spire on cold, lonely nights- he had watched her cry as she stood before Lor’themar and solemnly declared Sylvanas a traitor to Silvermoon. She had spent countless nights lying awake beside Rhonin, deflecting the twins’ questions, hurrying through Silvermoon with her hood over her face as elves stared and whispered and sneered about her treacherous, murderous sibling- and this man, this pathetic, abominable creature could have lifted a finger and put an end to their suffering-

 

  “Then I am truly sorry.” He stands up again and touches a finger to the pendant only to screech as it sears his skin. “Belore!”

 

  She nearly lunges forwards and crushes it into his face. “How long have you known for?”

 

  “Dar’khan visited Northrend the day after Kael’thas was killed. I followed him to Thyala Dawnbloom’s hideout and heard them speak jubilantly of how Sylvanas was deceived.” Rommath bares his teeth. “Very jubilant indeed, to have killed the _fascist prince._ ”

 

  “And you never tried to tell me? Never tried to tell Lor’themar? My sister, Rommath! My twin Moon!”

 

  “What could I have done, Vereesa?” Rommath’s eyes twitch to one side of the room. “I had no clue what powers Dar’khan now held, what new darkness he could control! You know I hold little regard for Lor’themar, but I would not see him- or you- hurt for my clumsy handling of the situation. For all I truly knew, Sylvanas herself could have been in danger, and you may think me heartless now- maybe you’re right.” She snorts. “But I refused to take the risk. I kept quiet and observed. And, thank the Sunwell, he was a useless pawn.”

 

  Vereesa frowns. “Was?”

 

  “Was.”

 

  “I see.” She takes a deep breath, the pendant still held in a white-knuckled grip before her. “I would fill you with arrows if you were not about to go straight to Lor’themar and tell him all of this.”

 

  He baulks. “We are at war, Vereesa! This can wait! Sylvanas is a tactician, she will understand. Tell her to hide within the Kul Tiran ranks-”

 

  “Speaking of Kul Tirans,” comes a voice from behind them, and Rommath jumps out of the chair and to attention as Jaina Proudmoore touches a gentle hand to Vereesa’s shoulder. A coolness radiates from her fingers. “You should really work on your detection skills. A quick cloaking spell did just fine to spy on you.”

 

  “Lady Proudmoore,” Rommath croaks, jerking into half a bow.

 

  Her lip curls in derision. Vereesa has to stifle a smile at the sight of her, taut with fury. “I just came to find you, Rommath, I owe you something.”

 

  “You do, Lady Proudmoore?”

 

  And Jaina strikes him soundly across the face.

 

  “Belore!” Rommath cradles his cheek, eyes watering; Vereesa can’t help but savour the sight of him bloodied, keening like a fool. “A good blow, Jaina. Surely she is not too afraid to come and deliver my punishment herself?”

 

  “You will not speak of her again save to clear her name,” Jaina growls.

 

  “It changes little now! She still stepped back and let Menethil into our city- would Kael’thas have died under your supervision, Vereesa?”

 

  “Do not dare,” Vereesa hisses. Her own fist aches to deliver brutal punishment to this two-faced filth. He would no doubt look spectacular on top of the magi’s bonfire outside. “She is not the only elf to drink herself stupid on occasion, is she?”

 

  “Anar’alah, I did not expect you to get personal! And it was a little more than drinking!” Rommath laughs through his red-flecked mouth. “I acted in the interests of Silvermoon-” He breaks off abruptly as Vereesa’s arrow touches to his throat. “Vereesa, put it down. I am not your villain. And with our dear Dar’khan gone, you need me to prove her innocent.”

 

  “I don’t care what she was doing that night. I care that every time you have looked at me, for the last four years, you have made the decision to deceive me. I do not care if my sister busied herself with unlicensed brain surgery or stripped naked and humped King Anasterian’s statue. She. Was. Innocent.” Vereesa tilts her chin up and stares him dead in the eye. “And you knew it.”

 

  Rommath spits blood on the floor. “She was anything but innocent in my bed.”

 

  The red mist rises in Vereesa’s vision but before she can move forwards, a barrage of icy missiles send Rommath flying backwards into the wall with a screech. “ _Never,_ ” Jaina growls as an icy hand forms around his throat, “speak of her that way again. Ever.”

 

  Rommath gasps for air past the frozen fingers, eyes fixed on Jaina’s outstretched arm. One shaking hand attempts to form a counterspell but it shatters to nothing in mid-air. “I- apologise,” he gargles. “Tasteless- joke!”

 

  Eyes glowing, Jaina tips her staff back and the ice hand throws him to the ground. “Indeed,” she snarls, and turns on her heel and marches out.

 

  Vereesa folds her arms and smirks. “I am going to _love_ telling Rhonin about this.”

 

-0-0-

 

  She spots Sylvanas crouched near Katherine’s rather singed and precariously-leaning tent, idly cleaning her gore-splattered blade; the smile she receives as she plonks herself down by her side is worth the cold, hard ground. “Vereesa and I found Rommath,” she says quietly, and Sylvanas’s smile falters. “And all I am going to say is this: you ever need the services he provided again, you could do leagues better than _that._ ”

 

  The weapon drops from Sylvanas’s hand as Jaina gently draws her hair behind one long ear and kisses her cheek. “After all, you have the Proudmoore Admiralty at your service, Lady Windrunner,” she whispers.

 

  “Saucy creature.” Sylvanas turns, nose bumping against Jaina’s, and presses a quick kiss to the side of her mouth as she eases upright and holds out a hand for Jaina to clamber up with.

 

  “You’re doing a very good job of remaining incognito.”

 

  Sylvanas nods to their left. “I was until the Lord Admiral’s daughter came and sat right beside me.” Jaina glances guiltily at the cluster of Kul Tirans staring, not subtly at all, right at them. “Oh, and she kissed me.”

 

  “You returned the favour.” She raises her voice slightly. “And nosey parkers get court-marshalled.” The little crowd dissipates within seconds.

 

  Narrowed red eyes meet hers once again, but the smile on her face softens them. It is a smile Jaina is growing to like more and more. “What did Rommath say?”

 

  Her fists clench by her sides. “Little of much use, but Vereesa will be delivering him to Lor’themar shortly. You’ll be free to return to Silvermoon after your name is cleared. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

 

  But even as she says the words, the grin drops from her face. Sylvanas will be happy.

 

  Jaina swallows hard, watches the gentlest of breezes catch strands of Sylvanas’s silvery-blonde hair. Here, closer to the Sunwell, her eyes are brighter; the elves milling around her wear beautiful, intricate armour, patterned with feathers and birds in shades of delicate blue and strong gold, that would fit and shape Sylvanas so perfectly. She stands mere inches from a beautiful bronze-boughed tree that Jaina knows she could vanish into in a split second. This is home for Sylvanas. This is where she belongs, in the Spire she spoke so lovingly of, with the sister who rushed to gather her into her arms as soon as Jaina freed her from the Scourge mage’s attack.

 

  Not in cold, dreary Kul Tiras.

 

  Sylvanas tilts her head to one side. Even in the cold, weak sunlight, her skin is warmed. “What do you mean by that?”

 

  “No, nothing! I’m sure it’ll be wonderful to return to your homeland.” Jaina plasters on a smile she knows Sylvanas will see through in a heartbeat. “Mother was asking after you, so I’ll return to the Kul Tiran tent and tell her you’re alright.”

 

  “Jaina-”

 

  “We’re just figuring out where the troops will sleep tonight. The night elves and the tauren have made a camp out in the open, but I fear our Kul Tirans won’t enjoy that quite so much. I won’t expect you to report in until late.”

 

  “Jaina, stop.”

 

  “I’m sure the Regent Lord will be thrilled to have you fighting alongside him and his for-”

 

  She’s cut off by Sylvanas covering her mouth with her own.

 

  “I gave you fair warning,” she mumbles against Jaina’s lips.

 

  But Jaina pulls back. Sylvanas herself told her how she loathed Kul Tiras. How only the company made it bearable. There is no scenario she can work out in which Sylvanas would willingly return, a bodyguard of barely any status, to Proudmoore Keep with her… much less when she could be here, respected and authoritative, residing in that gleaming spire atop a village named after her. “I must get on with my duties,” she grits out. “You are free to do as you wish. Report to the Lord Admiral when darkness falls, unless you have resumed your position within the Thalassian military, in which case… do whatever you wish.”

 

  Sylvanas stares for a moment, brow furrowed. Jaina forces herself to stare back. “You are dismissed,” she says the moment Sylvanas’s mouth opens. “Thank you for your service today.”

 

  “What has happened, Jaina? Do you no longer want- this relationship between us?”

 

  “Nothing has happened! I merely thanked you for your service, and I’m sure I can soon look forward to seeing you working with the Farstriders again.”

 

  “Ah,” Sylvanas says, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Now I understand.”

 

  “No you don’t,” Jaina mutters, even as long, muscular arms reach out and wrap round either side of her-

 

  And adjust the torn red cloak, still lying across her shoulders. “You believe I will leave your side the moment Silvermoon comes to accept me again,” she murmurs. “Do you?”

 

  “Yes.” She can feel her cheeks flushing. Ducking her head, she struggles out of the cloak and thrusts it towards Sylvanas. “Why would you not? Think logically on it. You have a sister, a Spire, you were one of the most esteemed elven rangers in Quel’Thalas, and you would be again, I’m sure.”

 

  “Mm, true. A lot to give up.” But the smile on Sylvanas’s face is wide. She makes no move to take back her cloak. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Jaina, but Silvermoon has a Ranger-General, and though I believe my sister could use some pointers- I will not barge back in and usurp her from the position she worked hard for.” The grin falls away. “We have a job to do, Lady Proudmoore. Arthas remains undefeated.”

 

  “The Sunwell,” Jaina murmurs. “That’s where your forces think he is headed.”

 

  “With good reason. I’m sure you need no lecture as to its power.”

 

  “No.” She clears her throat and looks away. “But after this, if we are victorious-”

 

  “Excuse me one moment.” Sylvanas releases her hold of Jaina’s shoulders, turns to one side and performs the most exaggerated, most elfish eye-roll Jaina has ever seen, to the point that she winces at its ferocity. “Firstly- we _will_ be victorious. Secondly- even if you do always insist on dumping us in Tiragarde Sound, you are a mage. You can teleport. You do not need to walk from Quel’Thalas to Boralus. And thirdly- reports of your bodyguard’s attitude towards Kul Tiras may have been a little exaggerated. For a human kingdom, it’s not so bad.”

 

  For a moment, she stands speechless. Sylvanas rubs at one eye. “Does that put your mind at ease?”

 

  “You _always_ complain about Boralus-”

 

  “And I always complained about Silvermoon. Too hot, too dry, not enough wind, too many high elves. As for Windrunner Spire?” She waves a hand. “Yes, it’s very beautiful, but it’s too large. Too quiet. The decoration was more to Talanas’s taste than mine. After all, I’d be bored if I had nothing to gripe about.”

 

  She tries to formulate an answer. Stares at Sylvanas, hair lit a fiery gold by the rapidly-setting sun, and eventually says, “That was the most elven thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

 

  Sylvanas bows. “Anu belore dela’na.”

 

  “I’ve no idea what that means, but- you don’t hate Kul Tiras?”

 

  “High elves maintain a healthy level of disdain for everything, Jaina.” She smiles, as softly as Jaina has ever seen her smile. “Stormwind? Dusty pile of rubble. Orgrimmar? So _orange._ Darnassus? We are one with our forests, but their obsession with trees is frankly unhealthy.”

 

  Jaina snorts before she can stop herself. “The night elves are an incredible ally,” she manages to get out past her stifled giggling.

 

  “Indeed, when you need your plants watered.”

 

  “Your humour is so dry.” And she takes a certain glee as Sylvanas rolls her eyes again. “Just- if you are going to join the Farstriders, please give me some warning first.”

 

  “We’ll concern ourselves with the details when he’s defeated,” Sylvanas says, and straightens up, gaze over Jaina’s shoulder. “Vereesa’s in a good mood… is that Rommath? What did you do to his nose?”

 

  Jaina shrugs. “I settled a debt.” She reaches up and caresses the vestige of the angry mark on Sylvanas’s cheek. “Very satisfying.”

 

  “Jaina-!”

 

  “His face was ugly anyway, I did no permanent harm.”

 

  But Sylvanas’s smile dies on her lips as a shadow falls on the ground beside them. Jaina turns, brows pursed, and comes face to chest with an almost ridiculously ornate breastplate; drawing herself to her tallest, she takes a step backwards to Sylvanas’s side. “Regent Lord,” she says by way of greeting.

 

  Lor’themar Theron’s eyes never leave Sylvanas, who glares defiantly back. “Lady Proudmoore,” he says in Common, and promptly lapses into rapid-fire Thalassian.

 

  Jaina shuffles from foot to foot, watching anxiously as Sylvanas grows stiffer and stiffer, Lor’themar gradually more animated, pacing back and forth and running his hands through his long blond hair as words are exchanged like boomstick fire; Vereesa is chewing on a fingernail, her husband Rhonin behind her leaning on his staff with a frown on his face. She leans to one side to catch her mother’s eye as she emerges from the military building with Cyrus Crestfall and a gaggle of marines, but Katherine only blows a kiss to her and vanishes once again with an enormous brown-furred tauren she vaguely recognises as the younger Bloodhoof.

 

  Lor’themar steps forwards and tugs at Sylvanas’s collar, mouth twisted into a sneer, and the urge to pyroblast him into a tree rises within her.

 

  Crimson eyes turn to Jaina. “This is high fashion in Boralus, Lor’themar,” she says in deliberate, highly enunciated Common, and makes a sweeping motion towards Jaina’s embroidered leggings. “I believe it flatters me.” And she takes a step forwards and bashes her fist against his chestplate with a sneer. “Really, this old piece? Was this not your grandfather’s? I understand you’ve been busy of late, but you are being seen by factions from across Azeroth. They must think all of our armourers were swept away by a tsunami.”

 

  _What is she doing?_ Jaina watches with horror as the Regent Lord’s eyes narrow, lips pressed tightly together, glaring down his nose as he steps backwards and- _oh thank the Tides-_ smiles.

 

  “It is good,” he says, in a thicker lilt than hers, “that you did not lose your sense of humour.” He turns back to Rommath, who bows his head, and hisses something that makes Sylvanas draw in a sharp breath and Vereesa wince. “And Lady Proudmoore.” Even as he turns from Rommath, his face broadens into a grin. “I trust our former General served you well.”

 

  “You won’t attempt to punish her? Because I warn you, Regent Lord, Kul Tiras would take an extremely dim view of that.”

 

  His eyebrows rise. “I suppose that answers my question. As long as she remains by your side.” That glowing gaze slides back to Sylvanas. “You are not exonerated yet, Lady Windrunner. Bear that in mind.”

 

  Vereesa steps forwards only for Lor’themar to hold out a hand in her direction. “Do not let our first judgement of you be the truest, Sylvanas. Now is the time to turn on your dark master. If you know anything about his plans-”

 

  “Dark master?” Sylvanas’s cheeks flush. Jaina nearly takes a step backwards as her entire body trembles with fury. “That man child? When he dies by my blade, I will wear his skin as a cloak! I will parade his head around Silvermoon on a pike! And when I am done with his pathetic corpse, I will scoop his entrails out for the dragonhawks! There will be nothing left of Arthas to command anyone, much less me!”

 

  Even Lor’themar looks alarmed. “I understand, Sylvanas, but-”

 

  “I have planned for four years how to make his death long, and slow, and so excruciatingly painful he will lay curses upon his father’s father’s father for daring to procreate,” Sylvanas hisses. “There will not be a sliver of his miserable being that goes unharmed when we are through with him. Even his hair will shrivel with the agony we will bestow upon him!”

 

  “Sylvanas,” Jaina says calmly, and waits until Sylvanas blinks. Lor’themar’s delegation have shrunk back; Rhonin holds his staff a little more tightly. “How about we go into detail a bit later.”

 

  She reaches out and places a hand on Sylvanas’s forearm. The muscles are so tightly clenched, she may as well be made of stone. “A word of advice from my, well, just call it _sense of the sea_ ,” she says to Lor’themar, whose forehead crinkles. “Maybe don’t suggest she has a “dark master” when she still has a blade in her belt.”

 

  “Or at any other time,” Vereesa says, and slides forwards. “Lady Moon- could I ask something of your experience on the battlefield, back in my tent?”

 

  Sylvanas’s ears slowly relax back down towards her scalp. “Of course,” she growls, and bends into a stiff bow. “Regent Lord.”

 

  “Lady Windrunner,” Lor’themar says in a slightly stunned voice.

 

  Jaina opens her mouth-

 

  Something physically jolts her. Sylvanas doubles over with a gasp, clutching her chest, and Jaina rushes to hold her even as the elves around her cry out and shrieks rise all around them. “Are you alright? Sylvanas! Talk to me!”

 

  “I- feel-” Sylvanas lifts her head, gasping for air, staring with unfocused eyes in the direction that Jaina belatedly realises every high elf is gaping towards. “No-”

 

  Rhonin raises his hands and teleports to beside them with the familiar tug of arcane, and the bottom drops out of Jaina’s stomach.

 

  “The Sunwell has fallen,” Vereesa whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for how long this took! I didn't want to focus the fic on this whole Jaina-in-the-dark-as-to-Sylvanas's-true-identity thing, or on the Sylvanas-within-the-Forsaken thing, mainly because I want to get some action and more importantly smut in here soon. Also I have so many amazing-looking Sylvaina fics to catch up on oh wow. Sadly uni is kicking my butt and as much as I would love to write my dissertation on 'Sylvaina and Why Most of the Warcraft Characters are LGBT+' I guess British comedy drama will do. I guess.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter :)


	9. In Which Sylvanas Tracks the Sunwell

_Isle of Quel’Danas, Eastern Kingdoms_

 

  “All this, for naught?” Arthas slams a hand down on the crumbling stonework of the dying Sunwell. “For the losses I incurred at Fairbreeze, and will doubtless incur here? It did not even work!”

 

  The undead mage before him does not even blink, not that he any longer needs to. The sun beats down on his desiccated frame. “Hardly for naught, your Majesty. See how quickly they rushed to the high elves’ aid?”

 

  “So we have established that the leaders of Azeroth collectively share a burden. How convenient, at the cost of several thousand troops and one of the only three fonts of power potent enough to free the God.” Arthas spits on the ground. “Keep talking!”

 

  “Whisperwind remains distracted. Stormrage with her. And you understood the risk of tampering with the Sunwell. Bringing these many warriors with you, unnecessarily, was your choice.” Arthas growls. “Regardless- the human.” The mage watches him carefully. “We know she will work.”

 

  “But you didn’t know where to find-!”

 

  “Precisely! The high elves will soon turn to Antonidas. And we do know that the Kirin Tor aided in the human’s creation, from the Sunwell’s essence.” Arthas is silent now, pacing. The mage takes a moment to adjust his new jaw before continuing. “Your master beneath Tirisfal Glades knows only that she is a being of extreme power. It will not be difficult to trace such a creature, once the Kirin Tor close in on them. We are swifter than they.”

 

  “She will be the first font?” Arthas runs a hand over his upper lip and motions Invincible closer. “And then we have Teldrassil.”

 

  “Then we merely require a third. Elune may yet prove acceptable.”

 

  “And Jaina.”

 

  The mage’s lips tighten. “And Jaina.” In truth, he has no clue what Arthas- or dear Sylvanas- sees in a ditsy Kul Tiran, but in fairness, she is a powerful mage. Not an inch on himself. “Then he will guide us to a third.”

 

  “Once we have Jaina.” Something in Arthas’s face actually _softens._ It is an unpleasant sight. “And the legacy I will-”

 

  Hearing this spiel for the thousandth time is as much as the mage can stomach, so he raises his hands instead and teleports them to the Marris Stead.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Fairbreeze Village, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms- as the last vestiges of the Sunwell fade_

 

  Suddenly there is chaos.

 

  Vereesa roars with fury and grabs for her blades with shaking hands, only for her legs to fold beneath her as she storms forwards. Lor’themar and Rommath, swaying like reeds in the breeze, stare dumbstruck at one another. Some begin to scream, crumpling where they stand, while others charge on trembling, unsteady feet for the front gates as though slaughtering the remnants of limbs littering Fairbreeze could bring the Sunwell back.

 

  On her knees in Jaina’s arms, Sylvanas shivers as though deathly cold.

 

  _Addiction. They’re addicted to it._ On a cold and clinical level Jaina understands this. She understands the physical manifestation of the removal of such potent power. But she is not cold and clinical, and panic near overwhelms her as Sylvanas struggles to push her hands away and stumble up. “Hey, just… take it slowly,” she manages to get out, even as she too shakes with shock. How could Arthas-?

 

  “We haven’t got time to recuperate, we need to get to Quel’Danas!” Teeth gritted so tightly the veins stand out in her neck, Sylvanas staggers to her feet, glaring at Lor’themar. “Now! There may be some hope-”

 

  “It has fallen,” Lor’themar murmurs. It seems to be all he is capable of saying.

 

  “Yes! Jaina- we need to teleport there- as soon as you can-”

 

  “I don’t know where it is,” Jaina whispers. “I’m sorry, Sylvanas, I can’t get us there. I’m sorry.”

 

  Panting for breath, Sylvanas swerves towards Rommath. “You know where it is!”

 

  “You think I have the power to mass teleport after that fight?” he snarls back. “I am happy to send just you-”

 

  “Theron!” booms a familiar voice.

 

  Still half-formed through the portal, violet robes whipping this way and that in the wind, Antonidas strides towards the dazed Lor’themar, Modera flanking his steps. “Lor’themar Theron!” he repeats, peering closer. “Are you in there?”

 

  “Not sure, but I am Ranger-General, and I’m more or less here,” Vereesa croaks, still held up by Rhonin. “Aren’t I, Rhonin?”

 

  He scrunches his nose up, peering into her face. “Close enough.”

 

  “I will teleport us, Ranger-General,” Antonidas continues impatiently, already drawing power like a sponge; Jaina shivers at the intensity of it. “We cannot waste time. Move the high elves to the sides, those who can fight, group closer to me-”

 

  “Kul Tiras, form up!” Katherine’s voice cuts like a foghorn through the cold air and soldiers pelt from all sides of the village, crashing into each other in their haste to form ranks. “Carefully, you school of drunken tidesnappers! You’re visiting the Sunwell, not the Snug Harbour Inn!”

 

  “Kal’dorei, bandu thoribas!” The night elf commander- Summermoon? - already has her ranks summoned behind Antonidas, a single band of Sentinels busily grabbing collapsed high elves and dragging them away from the Archmage. “Prepared!”

 

  “WILDHAMMER, OFF YE BACKSIDES! And get the gryphons ready! I feel like a dogfight!” And even Kurdran’s voice is drowned out by the squawking gryphons swooping down to cluster above the orcs and tauren thundering towards Antonidas and the great lilac aura surrounding him.

 

  Jaina grabs Sylvanas’s hand as her stomach drops and-

 

  “Tarren Mill?”

 

  “That’s right, Jaina,” Antonidas says behind her. “Just us three.” He lifts a hand and his staff vanishes in a shimmer. “We have an important errand to-”

 

  He stops as the tip of Sylvanas’s arrow touches to his forehead, regarding her with mild eyes. “Explain,” she snarls. “Where did you send the others?”

 

  “Quel’Danas. To fight the Scourge there. Arthas is not among them, he is here.”

 

  “Arthas is here?” Keeping the bow rock steady, she swerves, glaring towards the sleepy hamlet. “Then my duty shall be fulfilled on this day!”

 

  “Do not try to fight him!” Jaina shrinks back at the sharpness of his voice, but Sylvanas’s scowl only deepens. “I will not have your death on my hands. Your duty is to Jaina now.” And he shoves her bow away. “No further foolish notions. We have to find her before he does.”

 

  “Find who?” The bow jerks back up. “Why are we here? I have no guarantee you did not lie about where that spell sent our allies! Show me proof!”

 

  “By the light of the Arcane, put that thing down! We seek a human named Anveena Teague. She is more of an entity than- oh, it doesn’t matter, you need to find her, and now.”

 

  “Me find her for you-? We fought a mage from the Kirin Tor. An undead mage. And the Sunwell was guarded by your Kirin Tor magi when it fell.” Sylvanas’s eyes never waver from Antonidas’s. “If you cannot keep your own council clean, Archmage, why should we trust you now?”

 

  “Sylvanas!” Jaina grabs her shoulder, but Sylvanas may as well be made of stone. “I trust him.”

 

  “He teleported us here, in secret, to look for a- an _entity_! We only have his word that he isn’t working with Arthas!”

 

  “And I only have yours and Modera’s that you are not the traitor who allowed Kael’thas to be felled,” Antonidas replies.

 

  Snarling, Sylvanas takes a single step backwards. “Show me where this human is,” she growls. “And why she is so special…”

 

  Her bow droops. For a terrifying second, Jaina panics at the sudden lethargy, throwing a desperate look at Antonidas- but she draws in a breath and leaps round, ears shooting upright. “Belore,” she whispers. And she’s running before either of them can react.

 

  “Quickly,” Antonidas hisses, and Jaina bolts after the rapidly-vanishing high elf.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Isle of Quel’Danas, Eastern Kingdoms- as Sylvanas vanishes amongst the buildings of Tarren Mill_

“HOLD THEM BACK!” Katherine’s voice rings like a bell above the churn of combat. “Keep firing!” She ducks the row of arrows sailing into the front line of Scourge and bolts for Baine Bloodhoof. His tauren fighters are carving great swathes through the undead already. “Can you see Arthas?”

 

  “No, not yet.” Baine decapitates two undead with a grisly smack of his totem and swerves to slam three more into the wall. “The mage you spoke of- are they here?”

 

  “No.” She dodges to one side of a meat cleaver and runs the snarling death knight through with her blade; it swings desperately at her face and she ducks the blow and hacks at its knee joint, sending it toppling into the archers’ sights with its own momentum. “Baine- these forces are weak. Look at them fragmenting before our army. What have we missed?”

 

  He cranes his head up, watching in silence as the last handful of abominations crumple into gory chunks before the menagerie of fighters now catching their breath. A few steps behind him, Lor’themar sits heavily, eyes fixed on the ruins of the Sunwell. “I do not like this,” Baine says in a low voice. “The siege engines we saw at Fairbreeze have vanished.”

 

  Katherine drops her dripping fisticuffs and turns to survey her own forces. Battered, bruised, a little winded, but much to her relief, no losses. “This wasn’t a real fight,” she murmurs. “I bet Jaina barely had to-”

 

  Her eyes sharpen.

 

  “JAINA!”

 

  Baine starts after her as she grabs the nearest mage by the shoulder and shakes her. “Fairbreeze!” she yells at the poor gnome. “I need a portal to Fairbreeze Village, now!”

 

  “Lady Katherine, if she is not here, I presume she is with Ant-”

 

  “I don’t care, Baine! I need to find her! Is- is her bodyguard here? The high elf with red eyes?”

 

  Beside the catatonic Lor’themar, the indigo-haired mage looks up, eyes unfocussed. “You mean Sylvanas?”

 

  From pounding lava-hot with the heat of battle, Katherine’s blood suddenly runs cold in her veins. She turns, slowly. “What did you call her?”

 

  The high elf wobbles up from his crouch and leans as best he can on his staff. “I called her Sylvanas Windrunner. You may have heard her name before.”

 

  “She-? She’s the elf I entrusted my daughter to?” The heat is rushing to her face. “Your former Ranger-General?” The traitor of Quel’Thalas, wanted on every continent on Azeroth?

 

  _Jaina! I gave my daughter’s security to- to a creature allied with- oh Tides, she could be anywhere, Arthas could have her!_

 

  “The very same,” the mage says, now caught in the same reverie as Lor’themar. “The beloved Sunwell…”

 

  “You did not tell me this in Fairbreeze!” But his only response is a soft sob.

 

  Katherine snatches up her fisticuffs and runs through the portal.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Tarren Mill, Hillsbrad_

“What is she doing?” Jaina leaps over a gravestone and barrels after the high elf sprinting through barn and building. “Where is she- that’s someone’s house!”

 

  “The Sunwell,” Antonidas pants. “She’s an addict. She needs her fix.”

 

  “But the Sunwell was des- did she just vault that horse?”

 

  “Very nimbly, I must say.” Antonidas spares the confused beast a cursory pat on the nose as they run past. “This being, this Anveena, she _is_ the Sunwell, Jaina, or its essence regardless- and that’s why Sylvanas must find her. Krasus-” he pauses for a dignified wheeze- “experimented with just a fraction of its power and Anveena was the result we believed impossible, true sentience from a creation of pure power. Arthas is searching for a power of some kind, some font of great potency. Anveena is the embodiment of such a source.”

 

  Jaina’s gut clenches. She dodges past a group of stunned farmers and forces her legs to keep going after Sylvanas. “And what happens if Arthas gets her first?”

 

  “Let’s not consider that unless we absolutely have to.”

 

  His voice is low enough to make Jaina wince.

 

  Gritting her teeth, she blinks past the farmstead, forcing herself forwards and again until her muscles are screaming at her but Sylvanas too is slowing just enough that with the next blink Jaina’s hand brushes her arm. “Where is she?” she gasps. “Sylvanas, are we close?”

 

  “Yes, we’re close-”

 

  “Jaina! Jaina, STOP!”

 

  She reacts on pure instinct to Antonidas’s voice and grabs Sylvanas to bring them both tumbling to the ground as he roars a spell behind her and a plaguebat tumbles shrieking out of the sky.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Tarren Mill, Hillsbrad_

 

  “Cease your whining!” For the fifth time, Arthas looms over a snivelling villager. “Tell me where the mage went!”

 

  “I saw no mage!” the woman cries. She clings to her sleeping infant as though they would stand between her and Frostmourne. It’s a thought that should pain him, by rights. “All I saw was an elf!”

 

  “What did they look like?”

 

  “Red eyes! Dark red eyes!” She cringes again away from Frostmourne, glowing an inch from her throat. “She ran towards the Teague farmstead to the north- please, my daughter, at least let her go-”

 

  “She must speak of Windrunner. Kill her and we shall find them,” the mage says behind him.

 

  Arthas motions Invincible over with a flick of his finger and sheathes Frostmourne to leap into her saddle. “I won’t slaughter innocents in front of Jaina,” he says, and deliberately turns his gaze from the pile of lifeless bodies beside the weeping creature and her child. “Do you recall this farmstead?”

 

  “Yes, your Majesty.” The mage is already conjuring a portal. “We shall get there far sooner if- what was that?”

 

  Arthas’s head jerks round at the screech of a wounded plaguebat. In the distance to the north, a dark shadow falls from the sky. “Portal! They approach the farmstead already!” He tugs his blade from its sheath and flings a hand back to re-animate the corpses behind him; the woman screams afresh. “Come, my soldiers- your master commands it!”

 

  The portal solidifies and he kicks Invincible into a gallop.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Teague Farmstead, Tarren Mill, Hillsbrad_

 

  Before Jaina can react, Sylvanas has leapt to her feet and filled the skeletal rider with arrows.

 

  “How do they know we’re here? Antonidas?” She turns pleading eyes to the Archmage. “Can they feel her like Sylvanas does?”

 

  “Do not stop to wonder! We must find Anveena!” Antonidas tugs her to her feet-

 

  And lunges round to throw arcane missiles at the skeletal horse leaping from a portal and send it skittering backwards into the crumble-down barn behind as Sylvanas’s arms wrap round Jaina and haul her out of the way of a stream of fire from the undead mage.

 

  “GO! NOW!” Antonidas roars at them and blasts the Scourge with arcane so potent Jaina staggers back. “Find her!”

 

  She throws a shield around herself and Sylvanas and bolts for the farmstead only for a horde of decaying villagers to throw themselves into her path and Sylvanas leaps before her to pepper the crowd with arrows, arms working faster than Jaina can even see. “Forget these, find this girl, Jaina!”

 

  “No!”

 

  “Anar’alah, Jaina, just-”

 

  And she yelps and throws herself to one side as the fire nova erupting from Jaina immolates the undead on the spot.

 

  “Sorry!” Jaina shouts, already running for the little farmstead with its simple picket fence and slightly ajar door. “Just thought that would be easier!”

 

  There is no sign of anyone in the farmstead, the fire in the hearth long since fallen to embers. A single piece of bread lies curled on the kitchen countertop, hard when Jaina touches a finger to it. “Sylvanas, check upstairs.” She’s already taking them three at a time, swinging from room to room, growling loud enough for Jaina to hear. “Nothing?” The silence is confirmation enough. “Shit.”

 

  Sylvanas thuds back down, eschewing the stairs altogether in favour of vaulting the banister. “The beds are unmade. She might-” They both duck down as a blast of arcane energy shatters one wall of the house. “She might be nearby. He cannot fight Arthas alone!”

 

  “I don’t know how to contact Modera!” A fiery slam sends fragments of furniture flying past them; Sylvanas grabs Jaina and pulls her round into a tight embrace, hissing as debris slices her back. “We need to get out of here before-”

 

  Sylvanas’s ears jerk round and she leaps back up what’s left of the stairwell.

 

  “Sylvanas! No! The house’ll-”

 

  Jaina’s words are lost amid the deafening crash of the upper storey collapsing.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Fairbreeze Village, Quel’Thalas, Eastern Kingdoms_

Modera jumps as a portal crackles into life beside her and ejects the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, ruddy-faced and wielding two large fisticuffs. “You!” she yells, and grabs Modera by the cloak; she’s too startled to blink away. “Where is my daughter?”

 

  “Tarren Mill. With Antonidas and-”

 

  “And her bodyguard,” Katherine growls. She leans closer, close enough that Modera can feel puffs of hot breath against her cheek. “You provided a reference, Archmage. You vouched for her. I will not forget that.”

 

  “What are you talking about?”

 

  Something small, cold and round presses to her temple. “Take me to where Jaina is. Now.”

 

  One glance to the tight-lipped fury on the Lord Admiral’s face is enough. Modera silently gathers her power and a second later they are stood in the cool air of Hillsbrad, still staring at each other.

 

  Katherine’s eyes flick from side to side. “I don’t see her,” she growls.

 

  “Antonidas brought her and her bodyguard here. I promise you that I would never- what is that?”

 

  Katherine is already running, stowing her boomstick in its holster as her long legs carry her hurtling down the hill, towards the keening cry of a child amidst the cold silence of what Modera would normally expect to be a bustling town. She rushes after the Lord Admiral with a muttered curse.

 

  “Tell me what happened here!” Katherine cries as Modera stumbles after her into a town square piled high with corpses. The stench alone is enough to set her eyes watering. The Lord Admiral is crouched low to the ground, one arm extended to what Modera can now see is a hunched woman, wrapped tightly around a swaddled baby on her lap. “Where are the others in your village?”

 

  “There,” the woman wails, and throws an arm out towards the crumpled bodies beside her. “All of them!”

 

  “All of them?” Katherine bites her lip, glancing back towards Modera. “You- stay with her. Have you seen an Archmage and a young woman with white hair and blue robes? They had a high elf with them- have you seen them?”

 

  “They went towards the Teague farmstead to the north,” the woman sobs. “I keep hearing-”

 

  They all flinch at a blast powerful enough to rattle the cobblestones of the square, echoing from the northern road.

 

  “Antonidas!” Modera leaps to her feet and teleports so swiftly she barely realises Katherine has grabbed her wrist before her feet slam down onto scorched earth and she flings a shield out a second too late to halt the pyroblast headed straight for Antonidas’s face.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Teague farmstead, Hillsbrad, Eastern Kingdoms_

 

  “SYLVANAS!” Jaina shrieks. She claws at the wreckage, coughing and sputtering; her bloodied hands slip and slide on the shattered wood and stone. “Where are you? Oh, by the Tides, where are you, say something, anything-”

 

  “I’m here,” says a confused voice behind her, and colour rises in Jaina’s cheeks as a bloodied and dusty but very intact Sylvanas delicately steps over a piece of banister towards her, cradling a young blonde woman bridal-style to herself. “I’ve got her. She was hiding in a wardrobe upstairs.”

 

  Tentatively, Jaina touches one of the arms wrapped tightly around Sylvanas’s neck. “Anveena?” she says gently. “Are you Anveena Teague?”

 

  “Yes,” comes a small voice from somewhere around Sylvanas’s collarbone.

 

  “Can you stand?” And at her nod, Sylvanas carefully lowers her to her own two feet. “Hold on to Sylvanas, we’re going to take you somewhere safe, alright?”

 

  Anveena’s eyes, wary and confused, sharpen. “Mother! Father!” And she bolts out of the front door before Sylvanas can lunge for her.

 

  “Shit! Jaina, grab her and teleport!” They both sprint after her, but Anveena is barely a blur of blonde and brown dress as she rushes towards the battlefield and Jaina forces herself to blink and blink, dragging Sylvanas along with her-

 

  “Beautiful!” cries a familiar, oh so familiar, voice.

 

  Anveena shrieks and dives away as a bolt of arcane power crashes into the ground where her feet were. “Don’t be frightened, my dear. They will only bind you,” Arthas shouts, but Anveena is already diving behind a bush that promptly bursts into flames. “Anveena, do not be afraid of me…”

 

  And Jaina’s stomach twists as Arthas turns and stares directly at her.

 

  “Hello, Jaina,” he says, and there is a _softness_ to his voice that makes her shudder.

 

  An arm presses to her front and Jaina finds herself gently pushed backwards by Sylvanas, arrow nocked before her. “Do not come any closer, butcher,” she hisses.

 

  “Move, Sylvanas. I have no time for your games.” He has the audacity to sound bored, even as he glances towards the crumpled body of Antonidas. “Your Archmage is weak. There is justice in this world after all.”

 

  “You think this is a game?” They all jerk round towards Modera’s voice. “You slaughtered this entire town, Arthas!”

 

  The undead mage sends a flurry of glowing missiles straight at her but she bats them away, hand glowing so intensely Jaina’s eyes hurt. “Your pathetic attempts at sorcery are no match for me, elf. And if your master fancies himself such a champion at swordsmanship, he can come forward and face me himself!” A blade of pure arcane materialises in her other palm. “Well, Arthas?”

 

  He snarls. “Take her out. Take her out!”

 

  The elf fires a volley of fireballs at her, but Modera dispels them in mid-air.

 

  Something touches to Jaina’s hand and she glances round to Anveena, huddled against Sylvanas’s legs. “We need to leave,” she whispers. “Now!”

 

  “Jaina, take her. Go.” Sylvanas’s eyes do not leave Arthas. “Take her to Fairbreeze.” Her gaze flicks up and down his body. “Make sure Vereesa knows where she is. All I need is a chink in his armour.”

 

  The Scourge mage twitches round, eyes landing directly on them, and Sylvanas snarls in frustration. “Jaina-!”

 

  “I’m trying!” But the spell refuses to form. “The undead has put a counterspell on the area!”

 

  A resounding _thwack_ sends the rotting mage skittering back against Invincible, firing frostbolts at the space where the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras had been seconds earlier, and Arthas screams in wordless frustration as Invincible bucks and shrieks but even as Jaina starts to shakily form a second attempt at teleporting the ground rocks beneath their feet and Modera rushes to counter the immolation hurtling towards them-

 

  Its blunted force slams into them and Sylvanas’s arms wrap around her as they’re slammed back against the wreckage of the farmhouse with a loud crack.

 

  Invincible, finally calmed, swerves to face them. The sockets that once held warm, inquisitive brown eyes glow ice blue. “Step aside, Jaina. We won’t harm her,” Arthas calls.

 

  Without even thinking, Jaina’s hand touches to Sylvanas’s cheek. Arthas’s eyes narrow.

 

  “Finish them all!” the Scourge mage roars. “And finish _her_ before I have to look at her again!”

 

  “ENOUGH! I give the orders here!” Chest heaving, Arthas turns back to Jaina. “Be sensible, Jaina. I will harm neither of them.” His eyes slide to Sylvanas, mouth tightening. “Neither. You can have my-”

 

  He’s cut off by a sharp _bang_ and Invincible shrieks and staggers to one side, leg blown to scraps.

 

  “Master!” the mage cries. He sends a pyroblast after Katherine as she leaps behind a stone farm fence; it spatters to ashes on the masonry. “Grab her! Grab the girl!”

 

  Beside Jaina, Sylvanas curses roundly in Thalassian, and she turns her head to the sight of a bow split cleanly in two. “Fuck,” she whispers as the ground rocks afresh with Modera’s attack.

 

  “It would seem you are disarmed, Windrunner.” There’s no mirth in Arthas’s voice. His eyes remain on his whimpering horse. “Not much running to be done now. Hand the girl over.”

 

  Snarling, Sylvanas tugs her blade from its holster. The edges of Arthas’s mouth curl up. “That?” And he lunges to smash it with barely the tip of Frostmourne. She drops it as though burnt. “Come now. At least you could try!”

 

  “I don’t trust you, Arthas,” Jaina whispers. “I don’t believe you won’t hurt her. You need her for a reason, don’t you?”

 

  “M-me?” Anveena’s voice is little more than a squeak. “Why me?”

 

  “Why you?” Arthas smirks. “You truly have no idea of the power you possess, little Anveena Teague? You are truthful with me about this?”

 

  She shakes her head rapidly.

 

  “You… Miss Anveena…” He reaches out and wraps his fingers slowly, greedily, over her shoulder. “You are the Sunwell personified. A true sentient creature, made of pure power! You are not mortal, you are no weak human. You _are_ the power of the high elves. You are bound for far better than this stinking farmland. You wish to see them safe?” He jerks his head towards Jaina. “Your rescuers?”

 

  “Y-yes,” Anveena stammers. Her eyes flick to Sylvanas. “You’re a high elf… he tells the truth, doesn’t he?”

 

  Sylvanas nods.

 

  Anveena’s mouth tightens. She takes a step towards Arthas, whose grin widens. “I do wish to see them safe,” she says, and her voice is near emotionless. “Your offer is-”

 

  Her eyes glow white.

 

  “Not accepted.”

 

  And Arthas screams as he is flung back into the scorched wall by a blinding beam of pure energy.

 

  “Master!” the mage shrieks. He grabs Invincible’s reins and, dodging frostbolts raining down on him, drags the whinnying creature to Arthas’s side to disappear in a shimmer of blue light even as Katherine strikes at where they were with gore-spattered fisticuffs.

 

  Modera is already running to Antonidas’s side, beckoning Katherine towards her as Antonidas wobbles to a sitting position; as though in a daze, Anveena stumbles along the road and drops down beside Modera. Jaina pauses only long enough to take a long, deep breath and grabs Sylvanas’s head with both hands to press their lips together.

 

  She tastes of blood and dust, but Jaina kisses greedily, lowering one hand to her hip and tugging her bodily closer as Sylvanas lets her own arm come to rest on Jaina’s waist. Careful fingers card through the hair at Jaina’s neck and she responds by stroking her thumb over Sylvanas’s cheekbone, smiles into the kiss at the little shudder it produces, even as calloused fingertips retaliate by tickling down to her shoulder-

 

  Sylvanas staggers backwards with a yelp and Jaina’s eyes snap open to her mother holding her boomstick to Sylvanas’s temple. “What have you done to her?” Katherine yells, tugging the clump of Sylvanas’s hair clutched in her other hand. “Did you lead Arthas to her?”

 

  “Mother, no!” Jaina grabs the muzzle of the boomstick. “You’ve misunderstood- Mother, let her go!”

 

  “Sylvanas Windrunner, the traitor of Quel’Thalas,” Katherine growls. Her eyes flick to Jaina’s. “I don’t suppose your Dark Lady told you about that. And _you-_ ” she yanks Sylvanas’s hair- “why did you stand between her and Arthas? Why would you protect her?”

 

  “I love her,” Sylvanas hisses, and clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

 

  Katherine stills. Her finger drops from the boomstick trigger. “What is going on? My daughter- what does she mean? Is this some Scourge magic?”

 

  “Mother, let her go,” Jaina says, firmly. Her gaze remains fixed on the gun at Sylvanas’s head. “Put the boomstick back in its holster. You truly think my judgement so poor that I wouldn’t realise if she had malicious intentions? That I would love a woman who betrayed her own people and let their leader die?”

 

  Katherine slowly lets the boomstick fall back to her side, but her grip on Sylvanas’s hair does not lessen. “You kissed her, Jaina,” she says slowly.

 

  “Yes, Mother. I did.” Jaina refuses to give in to the urge to fold her arms like a naughty teenager. “It was a lovely kiss until someone pulled her hair.”

 

  Jaw gritted, Katherine drops the boomstick back in the holster and wrenches her hand away; Sylvanas takes a hasty step backwards, rubbing her scalp. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before,” she growls. “If you have ever done anything at all to hurt her-”

 

  “Katherine.” Approaching behind Jaina, Modera’s voice is calm. She places a hand on the Lord Admiral’s spaulder. “I told you myself that she would do a fine job. I would never have let harm come to Jaina. You know that.” Her eyes, glowing faintly, remain on Katherine’s until she lets out a long sigh, shoulders sagging. “Though this-” she motions between Jaina and Sylvanas- “I did not foresee.”

 

  Katherine clears her throat and runs a hand over her forehead. “I will be watching you,” she mutters in Sylvanas’s direction, before turning on her heel and marching to the scrubby grass to wipe her fisticuffs off.

 

  A small cough brings them all round to Antonidas, wobbling a little, one hand held by Anveena. “We need to leave for Dalaran. I have no doubt Arthas will awaken soon and issue orders for Anveena to be captured.” He chuckles under his breath. “It was unwise to challenge the Sunwell itself.”

 

  Anveena tips her chin up. Her eyes are wide and anxious, yet her shoulders are squared. “We will have to make this quick. My mother and father will be concerned.”

 

  “Of course,” Modera says smoothly, though Jaina does not miss the look she and Antonidas exchange, and a second later they are beside the gently-burbling Dalaran fountain. Antonidas is off before the haze of teleportation has even left Jaina’s vision. “Jaina, Anveena, Katherine- with me. Sylvanas… I’m sorry, but I would far prefer it if you did not come in for this conversation.”

 

  “Why?” Sylvanas’s ears jerk upright, hands clenching on her ruined bow. “I will not divulge-”

 

  “By the Light, I know you wouldn’t. Please, go and get yourself cleaned up, or if you truly must, wait outside.” Modera holds her gaze until Sylvanas turns away, giving one sharp nod. “Thank you. Ladies, come with me.”

 

  Jaina waits for her mother to be a step ahead before rushing back to steal a kiss. “I’ll tell you what they say,” she whispers.

 

  “Anar’alah, I never had you down as such a rulebreaker.” Sylvanas’s fingers wrap around hers for the briefest second before she steps backwards and folds her arms. “I will be waiting.”

 

  “I’m counting on it.” And Jaina runs to catch up with Modera.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Icecrown Citadel, Northrend_

 

  “My lord… are you faring better?”

 

  The undead mage ducks a goblet thrown at his head. “Damn you! You had them in your sights! I should cast you into Wyrmrest myself!” Arthas tips his head back and draws in as deep a breath as his scalded lungs can manage. “And Jaina to boot!”

 

  “My lord, all is not lost- they will try to take Anveena to the Sunwell, will they not? They will be expecting such a lacklustre force as before.”

 

  Arthas scoffs. “You predict them again. Look how well we have fared so far. Invincible is grievously wounded for your inability to keep an eye on that buffoon Admiral!”

 

  “Perhaps, but this was not entirely a loss, my lord. We know where she is and what she looks like, we know the true strength of the Archmagi and of Anveena herself, and Syl- Windrunner’s favoured bow is destroyed.”

 

  A low chuckle comes from the bed by the window. “A clever blow you struck there.”

 

  The mage bows. “I retain as much of my ranger training as ever, your Majesty.”

 

  Arthas rubs his chin. “She challenged me with a child’s plaything of a blade. The hubris of the high elves… nonetheless, she is vexing me greatly.” His eyebrows draw together. “Do you have any lingering ties to her?”

 

  “It would be difficult to answer that, my lord,” the mage says slowly. “But what I will tell you is, she is headstrong and ever was. She does not rest easily. As long as we stand against her, she will harry you like a sparrow does the hawk. Regardless, she is at least intelligent enough to know we cannot be stopped.”

 

  It hurt, when she stared him dead in the eyes and he saw no flicker of recognition.

 

  Arthas huffs, rubbing his scratched elbow. “Headstrong… like Jaina. Ensure that we are ready to carry out your suggestion the moment we capture them.” The mage nods. “I am willing to leave the final blow to you.”

 

  “That will not be necessary, your Majesty, but I thank you for your regard.” The mage bows low.

 

  “Mm. Then I will enjoy it myself. And Zendarin?”

 

  The mage turns.

 

  “Bring my horse to me as soon as he is ready.”

 

  “Of course, your Majesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know how it was! I'm so sorry it's a shorter update than usual and probably not the best quality but university is roundly kicking my butt and I still have 3500 words of essay to write for next Friday and though it deeply saddens me to say this, the topic is not Why Jaina and Sylvanas are the Leading Women of Warcraft. Also I did say smut this chapter and I'm sorry I just don't have time to get it down (sorry) right now- it will definitely be in the next chapter. I have Plans for them.
> 
> And one more quick thing: I know Zendarin Windrunner was a mage but was never canonically a member of the Kirin Tor, this will be explained later!


	10. In Which Jaina and Sylvanas Demonstrate their Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW so please be aware: lemons ahead :)

  _Dalaran, Deepwind Pass, Eastern Kingdoms_

 

  Jaina stands frozen by the steps of the Citadel. She watches as Anveena strides along behind Antonidas, staring round at the beauty and bustle of Dalaran. She watches as Modera and her mother talk quietly behind their hands. And she watches Sylvanas, slung over a bench opposite the Citadel entrance and busily whittling at the handle of a new blade, still clad in dusty and bloodied leathers.

 

  She takes a step forwards and Sylvanas looks up. A weary smile crosses her lips, one that falters as she searches Jaina’s expression.

 

  By the Tides. How would she even tell this proud, strong woman that her own flesh and blood now stands at Arthas’s side?

 

  “Sorry… I’m just tired.” Jaina hurries herself forwards and sits down beside Sylvanas, touches a careful finger to the blade. “Please tell me you billed it to the Proudmoore Admiralty.” It feels such a small, insignificant thing to quibble over, but it’s normality. It’s her nagging the Dark Lady.

 

  “Does Antonidas believe he can restore the Sunwell?”

 

  “Yes.” Sylvanas’s breath escapes her in an enormous sigh of relief, her entire body relaxing. Jaina wriggles to one side and captures one calloused hand in both of hers. “He knows he can. Anveena had approached Alonsus Faol with the thought she was intended to become a priestess, but he turned her away because her power was of a different nature- anyway, yes, it will be restored.” She pauses, watching Sylvanas carefully. “It will have to wait until after Arthas’s defeat.”

 

  “I understand… though I don’t like it, and I know Lor’themar won’t. A strategic decision.” Sylvanas bows her head, red eyes fixed on Jaina’s hand in hers. “And what of the forces who rushed to the Sunwell? Vereesa was so anxious to get to Darnassus and retrieve her children, she barely stayed still long enough for me to speak with her.”

 

  “No losses. Seems all they found was the remnants of an army. Mother helped tidy them up, but the Kirin Tor magi stationed there by Antonidas were slaughtered. They saw the remnants of battle but their bodies are missing.” Sylvanas hisses through her teeth. “There’s… nothing we can do for them now.”

 

  “No. They died for a noble cause… as glib as I’m sure their families will find it.”

 

  There is silence for a moment.

 

  “Quel’Thalas will ever be in the Kirin Tor’s debt. And Kul Tiras’. Your mother really does have a mean right hook, doesn’t she?”

 

  “And a mean left hook. You don’t even want to know what her uppercut is like.”

 

  Sylvanas manages a small, slightly strangled laugh. “I have you and Modera to thank for pulling me out of her firing line before I could find out.”

 

  She can’t resist. As Sylvanas bends forwards to sheathe her new blade, Jaina dips to meet her with a kiss that just manages to disguise the tear rolling down Jaina’s cheek.

 

  Sylvanas’s arm comes around her back and she shuffles closer. The warmth of her body pressed against Jaina’s is near hypnotising to one so tired; Jaina droops like a parched peacebloom, reluctantly breaking the kiss to stifle a yawn. “I’m sure I remember a bowyer in Dalaran as well,” she murmurs into the warm shoulder that suddenly feels very pillow-like. In her peripheral vision, Modera strides away, stowing her staff on her back. “We will find them in the morning?”

 

  “My sister has agreed to bring my old bow from the Farstriders’ hut in Windrunner Village when she returns from Darnassus.” Sylvanas’s other arm comes round to hold Jaina in place. “It is… a little rusty, but it’s better than no bow at all. You, Jaina, need rest. Does your mother have any lodgings in Dalaran? Perhaps Antonidas would be good enough to afford us accommodation?”

 

  “He has, in the Citadel.” Sylvanas gives a low whistle. “There is only one small drawback. Please tell me if this is going to make you uncomfortable…”

 

  Sylvanas’s hand rubs up her arm. “Go on.”

 

  Heat rises in Jaina’s cheeks. “There’s only one bed.”

 

  “And why would that make me uncomfortable?”

 

  Jaina blinks up at her. “We’ve only been doing, well, this-” she gestures between them- “for a day or two. It’s just that with all the extra soldiers stationed in Dalaran at the moment-”

 

  “Jaina, don’t concern yourself.” The last word is muffled, Sylvanas’s jaw gritted against what Jaina suspects is an enormous yawn. “We both need rest. I suggest we get it while we can.”

 

  She nods. _Fool mage. She’s sore from battle, sore from traipsing through Quel’Thalas. Too tired to care. Like you._ Sniffling against the cool air, she reaches up to brush a stray tendril of silvery-blonde hair from Sylvanas’s eye. “Then come with me,” she murmurs.

 

  She will not tell Sylvanas yet. But even as she watches her gathering her quiver and the battered pieces of armour strewn around the bench, her heart aches. _They were close once,_ Modera had said. _She and Zendarin were two bright sparks within the Windrunner family. Kindred spirits._

 

  Now Zendarin must die again, and Jaina’s stomach swoops unpleasantly at the thought that he may well die by Sylvanas’s bow.

 

  Jaina steps forwards and takes her hand. “At least it’ll be comfortable.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _Violet Hold, Dalaran_

“She won’t stop singing!” The harried, rumpled guard strides along before Modera, running a hand through her hair. “She just- she just won’t stop singing.”

 

  “What song?”

 

  “It’s a Kul Tiran ditty, but she’s changed the words.” The guard flicks a hand and the illusion of the wall vanishes-

 

  “BEWARE, BEWARE, THE DAUGHTER OF THE SEA!

  BEWARE, I HEARD HIM CRY!

  HIS WORDS CARRIED UPON THE OCEAN BREEZE

  AS HE SANK BENEATH THE TIDE!”

 

  “I see what you mean,” Modera yells over the racket. “By the arcane’s might, who is the daughter of the sea?”

 

  “THOSE BLOOD-SOAKED SHORES OF KALIMDOR,

  WHERE SAILORS FOUGHT AND DIED!”

 

  “It’s a Kul Tiran myth,” the guard shouts back. “The most powerful mage of Kul Tiras will one day wield the sea as a weapon against her foes. Though I doubt very much it came from a prophet, more a drunkard at the bar-”

 

  “THE ADMIRAL FELL AT STROMGARDE FORT,

  BECAUSE SHE LEFT HIS SIDE!”

 

  “I’ve… never heard that bit before,” the guard murmurs. “Stromgarde? Do you think it’s talking about Daelin Proudmoore?”

 

  Modera twists her hand and the wall re-appears. “In truth, it sounds like someone is playing with us. What little we’ve heard from Darnassus has the night elves spooked by rumours about Elune, I’m told the Echo Isles have an outbreak of what the trolls think is bad voodoo and the tauren are muttering about the ancestors’ unrest. Something is playing us like a Kul Tiran fiddle.” She sighs, heavily. “Don’t tell Katherine Proudmoore. Monitor her and tell me if she starts screeching anything else… and I’ll order in some earmuffs, too.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _By the Dalaran fountain, Deepwind Pass, Eastern Kingdoms_

 

  After her thousands of years as Illidan’s jailor, Maiev had looked forward to coming home to the comfort of Elune.

 

  Tyrande, she could take or leave (though admittedly ten thousand years is plenty of time to ruminate on your actions, and frankly, Maiev has grown a bit since then). Malfurion was never going to be her biggest fan. Shandris? She wishes she could’ve been friends with such a creature. Her determination and her loyalty are prized characteristics for one as jaded as Maiev. Perhaps in another timeline, another lifetime.

 

  She chews on one of the scars on her lip, leaning against the cool stone wall, perfectly hidden from view. Coming home to a war against the undead had not been a pleasant surprise, much less when the brilliance of Elune had all but vanished from the skies and the night elves had retreated into Darnassus, panicking, old mistrusts of their new allies spreading fast amongst the fearful population… and thus Maiev had taken her last breath of moonlily-scented air and rushed to the Grove of the Ancients only to bump into Tyrande herself.

 

  Well, someone had to be proactive.

 

  She slinks past the fountain, glances round at the bellows of laughter from two fat goblins outside the bank. The night is almost too quiet.

 

  Even she senses the Sunwell’s loss, wincing in sympathy as two haggard high elves stumble past, clutching mana-infused foods as though they contained their lifeblood itself. _Well, close enough._ Dalaran is subdued, the alehouses dark and empty and curtains drawn against the heavy, cold air.

 

  A gaggle of Kirin Tor magi rush past, talking in whispers, and her eyes narrow as one of the shadows shifts to one side to avoid them.

 

  Her warglaive is unsheathed and she’s leaping before thinking twice and the Kirin Tor scatter like deer as her glaive crunches into chainmail and the figure shrieks, throws her off-balance with a kick to her inner thigh but she rolls with the blow and slashes at the dark beard, only to dive beneath an arrow aimed at her arm and by the time she’s upright again the figure is leaping over a well-aimed fireball and disappearing amongst the side streets. “Shit!”

 

  She bolts after him, but he is long gone.

 

  “Archmage Modera!” she hears cried behind her. “Scourge in the city!”

 

  “Three more patrols. Get them out of bed. Now!”

 

  Maiev slowly returns her weapon to her back. “That one was powerful,” she says to the still night air. “Different. Like…”

 

  _Like two souls in one,_ she thinks. Like a master swordsman with an archer’s aim.

 

  A hand claps down on her shoulder before she can take off after her prey, and Archmage Modera turns her so they face one another. “Have you seen Tyrande Whisperwind?”

 

  “The Grove of the Ancients-”

 

  “Bring her here. Now.” Modera slaps a hearthstone into her hand and before Maiev can so much as blink she’s sprawled over familiar forest floor, Shandris’s glaive to her throat.

 

  “Me again,” she croaks.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Violet Citadel, Dalaran, Deepwind Pass_

 

  “How are you feeling, do you need anything-”

 

  Throwing her arms out in exasperation, Sylvanas swerves on one heel to fix Jaina with a gimlet-eyed stare. “ _Belore,_ Jaina, if you ask me one more time, I’ll hang you upside down in the fountain. I am not an addict- oof!”

 

  Turning back, Sylvanas crashes straight into Katherine Proudmoore, stood beside a pile of supplies bearing the Proudmoore crest.

 

  “Good evening, Mother,” Jaina says evenly, grabbing an arm each and hauling them up. “How are you?”

 

  “I’m fine.” She glances back to Sylvanas, who fixates on a chandelier on the other side of the room. “Getting used to being upended by Rangers-General.”

 

  There’s a silence.

 

  “Modera told me you asked her to ensure Sylvanas stays with you tonight,” Katherine continues, motioning to Sylvanas, whose ear twitches. “Just in case.”

 

  _Fuck._ Shooting Sylvanas a grimace, Jaina scratches the back of her neck, shifting from one foot to the other. “I- if that’s how she interpreted it…”

 

  “It’s a good idea.” Katherine forces a smile onto her face. “I will sleep sounder knowing you are protected.”

 

  And the silence falls again.

 

  Taking a deep breath, Jaina steps back towards Sylvanas, eyes narrowed. “Right- if you have something to say, say it now, Mother, before all of us pass out from exhaustion.”

 

  Sylvanas lowers her head to stare directly at the Lord Admiral. Katherine, in turn, regards her with a keen eye. Jaina ducks her head and murmurs a prayer to the Light.

 

  “Thank you,” Katherine says, and Jaina’s head shoots up.

 

  Sylvanas blinks. “What for?” she says slowly.

 

  “You stood between my daughter and Arthas.” Katherine clasps her hands behind her back. “More than once. I believe I owe you a thank you for that.”

 

  As Jaina’s eyebrows rise into her hair, Katherine shifts from foot to foot, clearing her throat. “I jumped to conclusions when I was told your name. Are you a mother, Dark La- I mean, Sylvanas?” And at the shake of Sylvanas’s head: “My belief that my daughter was in danger eclipsed rational thought for a moment. But that does not excuse my behaviour. Not in light of her ability as a mage, and not after your four years of loyal and frankly outstanding service. I can only apologise.”

 

  She takes a steadying breath. “I hope I did not hurt your head too much. I’ve been told I have a very strong grip.”

 

  “It is not an issue,” Sylvanas murmurs.

 

  “I managed to speak with Lor’themar, when he regained some semblance of consciousness.” Katherine’s eyes turn to Jaina. “It was made very clear that the Lady Windrunner is a valued member of the Kul Tiran royal household and any plans to put her on trial in Quel’Thalas would be received… poorly. He seems like a fast learner, I think he understood.”

 

  Jaina snorts. “You put the fear of the Light into him, no doubt.”

 

  “I try, daughter.” But her face sobers as she steps towards Sylvanas. “Here,” she says, and produces a plank of wood from the pile of bags by her feet. “Modera informed me your bow had been shattered, so I sent one of our magi back to Proudmoore Keep to retrieve this. It is from a tree in Drustvar supposedly grown from a smuggled acorn of Nordrassil- regardless of daft folk tales brewed up after one too many shandies, it is the finest bow-wood Kul Tiras can offer.” She shuffles her feet and proffers it to Sylvanas, who carefully runs her fingers over its dusty surface. “Is it an agreeable gift for my poor behaviour, and my lack of gratitude for your service in watching over my headstrong daughter?”

 

  Sylvanas swallows hard. “A very generous gift, Lord Admiral. This is the perfect elasticity. But my sister, when she eventually deigns to honour us with her presence, has promised to bring a bow-”

 

  “Then you may whittle a spare. Take what you need.” Katherine places the plank in Sylvanas’s arms and salutes. “There are some mana crystals from Suramar in your lodgings as well. Modera impressed upon me the importance of keeping you supplied with a substitute until the Sunwell can be restored. Now- I am going to find Antonidas.” She strides to Jaina and kisses her on the cheek. “Sleep well, sweetheart. There are healing potions for both of you by the bed.”

 

  She pauses for a moment, hand still on Jaina’s shoulder, before grabbing Sylvanas and kissing her cheek too. “Go and wash the dust out of your hair,” she says, and marches out towards the gardens.

 

  Sylvanas, turning the plank over in her fingers, regards Jaina evenly. “Modera must speak terrible Common, to misinterpret you so.”

 

  “Shut up,” Jaina mutters, cheeks boiling hot. “Or you get the floor.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _The gardens, Dalaran, Deepwind Pass, Eastern Kingdoms_

 

  “You seem a little calmer,” Modera says as Katherine strides up to the little gathering. “Jaina has gone to bed?”

 

  Katherine folds her arms. “Yes, she and the Dark La- Sylvanas have retired for the night.” She regards Modera coolly. “Perhaps you could play matchmaker for me too, Modera, and recommend me a handsome elven bodyguard.”

 

  Modera’s face flushes. “I swear, I had no idea-”

 

  “Don’t get your ballast in a bind. Even I’ll admit she’s easy on the eye. But we didn’t come here to discuss Jaina’s taste in women.” She glances to Antonidas. “The Sunwell? Arthas?”

 

  Modera turns and Katherine instinctively drops into a bow as Tyrande Whisperwind, draped in a dark cloak, glides towards her. “High Priestess, forgive me, I didn’t see you-”

 

  Tyrande shakes her head. Her mouth attempts something akin to a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Ishnu-dal-dieb, Lord Admiral. I wish we met in more favourable circumstances.” One corner of the cloak falls away to reveal her muddied priestess’s garb; Katherine frowns. “My goddess is missing.”

 

  “Missing? How in the name of the Tides does a goddess go missing?”

 

  Antonidas runs a hand over his forehead. “She has a physical embodiment. Capture that, and you have captured the goddess… much as by capturing Anveena Teague, Arthas would have captured the Sunwell.”

 

  “He- wants gods?”

 

  “Not gods, per se,” Antonidas says. “Elune and the Sunwell are manifestations of power, though of different natures. But I doubt very much Menethil has set out on such a mission of his own volition.” Beside Antonidas, Tyrande bares her fangs. “No paladin could possibly hope to face Elune and win. Not alone, anyway. Someone else is holding her, and the last Tyrande knew of her was Tirisfal Glades.”

 

  He pauses. “Does Jaina know anything more about him? Anything she has not shared with us?”

 

  “You’d do better asking the Da- _Sylvanas._ She tells her everything.” Katherine sweeps some stray hairs from her eyes, frowning. “The closest entity I can think of with that kind of power is Uldir. And though Tides know there’s no love lost between the Zandalari and the rest of Azeroth, I doubt they would venture back into that vault for anything.”

 

  “Then we find ourselves at a loss,” Antonidas says gently. “High Priestess- remain here in Dalaran for now. I understand,” he continues as she opens her mouth, “you must lead your people- please, grant me one day. I need to go to Tirisfal. And I will return with answers.”

 

  “One day,” Tyrande says slowly. “I feel the Mother Moon’s distress, Antonidas.”

 

  “I will return with answers and we will rescue her.” And he’s gone.

 

-0-0-

 

  _A bedroom, Violet Citadel, Dalaran_

 

  Jaina emerges from the little washroom, wet hair piled on top of her forehead with a gentle heating spell to dry it, to the sight of Sylvanas surrounded by wood chippings, sucking idly on a mana crystal.

 

  And she is overwhelmingly grateful that she is, cuts and scrapes aside, unharmed.

 

  “I take it my mother’s little gift is working out for you,” she says, plopping down on the bed. There are even wood shavings clinging to the fine hairs on her ears. “Shall I find a dustpan and brush?”

 

  “Child of Nordrassil or no, this wood is exquisite.” The bow looks as though it is growing from beneath Sylvanas’s hands. “The accuracy will be- anar’alah- it will be magnificent.” She glances up, still working at the bow; Jaina watches, mesmerised. “My elder sister was blessed with Thas’dorah, a bow crafted by the first Ranger-General of Silvermoon, Talanas Windrunner. She was hardly clumsy before she wielded it, but afterwards? No orc, no troll, no beast could escape her. She was swift and precise and she was deadlier than any other amongst our number, even myself.”

 

  Jaina smiles, fondly. “That’s something I’ve always found attractive about you. How humble you are.”

 

  Placing the bow down and crunching the last of the crystal, Sylvanas flexes her left hand and places it on the freshly-whittled handle. “Of course you do. But Alleria and Thas’dorah are lost,” she says softly, lips and tongue stained an ashy blue. “I would never presume to take it anyway, no matter how furious I was when she was gifted it.”

 

  Jaina swallows hard. “We have some time to kill, and I’m curious. Tell me about your family.” Her heart thuds a little faster. “I’m told high elf families are numerous.”

 

  _You must not tell Sylvanas about Zendarin. Promise, Jaina._ Modera had taken her by the shoulders, eyes boring into hers. _We can’t afford for her to set her sights on him and endanger herself doing so. Promise me you will never tell her._

 

  Sylvanas, now shaping arrows from the shards of spare wood, doesn’t look up from her whittling. “My family? My mother was Ranger-General before myself and Vereesa. Alleria did not wish for the role, so I was dragged before King Anasterian by my mother and told to say my vows.” She sniffs, wiping roughly at her nose. “My younger brother Lirath was killed by trolls many years ago.”

 

  “I’m sorry,” Jaina murmurs.

 

  “He was truly a strange ranger. His wish was to combine the arts of mage and archer.” Sylvanas’s mouth twists into a bitter smile. “The day before the incursion, he was packing his bags for a stay in Dalaran. I torture myself, wondering what would have happened, had he left one day early- shit!”

 

  She sticks her thumb in her mouth, whining in the back of her throat; the broken arrow drops to the ground with her bloodied whittling knife. “Another example of high elf dexterity,” she mutters around her hand. Jaina doesn’t miss the single glistening track on her cheek as she slots the pile of arrows into her quiver and places it beside her new bow. “You must think us as co-ordinated as pigs in mud.”

 

  Jaina wordless extends the health potion, a soft smile on her face as Sylvanas- in a rare show of obedience- does as she is bidden. “When you say dragged before your King, you mean you were forced to-”

 

  “Anar’alah, no. I’d spent hundreds of years training to be Ranger-General, shadowing my mother in everything from subterfuge to bureaucracy. I say ‘dragged’ because Minn’da insisted on the full ceremony.” She shudders. “It was not enough for Minn’da to have me become Ranger-General, she also needed to show off the eligible Windrunner spawn. Belore, I could barely breathe for how tight the uniform was. My cleavage was practically at my throat.” She snorts. “As you can see, she was successful in only one regard.”

 

  “Have you still got the uniform?”

 

  Sylvanas reaches over to poke her gently with an arrow. “No.”

 

  “Damn. Do I get to… meet her? Your mother?”

 

  “Not unless you trade your soul to Bwonsamdi.” Sylvanas continues whittling, her movements slower now, each carefully calculated. “She died in a blaze of glory, defending Silvermoon and its lands from the Amani.”

 

  “I’m so sorry,” Jaina murmurs, and before she can stop herself, rises and pads behind Sylvanas’s hunched form, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. “At least she died as a warrior.” Is that even a comfort?

 

  Sylvanas sniffs. “She died for her own pride, refusing to retreat with a full quiver. Despite what Silvermoon’s customs would have you think, honour means nothing to a corpse.”

 

  Jaina swallows hard. Strokes down Sylvanas’s rigid back muscles until, with a sigh, she lets herself relax back into Jaina’s hands. “What about… extended family? You know what Kul Tiran families are like, all about sticking together in times of dire need, even when that translates to a slap-up supper and a big argument every Sunday.”

 

  Sylvanas snorts a laugh, wiping the whittling knife on her leggings. “I hate to disappoint, but aside from a smattering of cousins and my grandfather, there are few Windrunners left. Not that we were close.” She stifles a yawn, ears quivering adorably; Jaina quickly schools her face into impassivity. “I’m afraid I have long since lost track of the Proudmoores.”

 

  “I have as well. I usually just call them Daelin and if they’re not a Daelin, their middle name is Daelin.” Trying to quell the nerves in her chest- her curiosity really does get the better of her- she steps away and tugs the nightshirt her mother brought for her from her bag and nibbles on her lip. “I think I will retire.”

 

  “Yes, you should.” Sylvanas’s shoulders are drooping with exhaustion. “And it will likely be an early morning.”

 

  She should be well on her way to slumber, but Jaina feels wired. Even her hands are trembling a little as Sylvanas lifts herself from the chair, dropping the arrows into the quiver that promptly swallows them with a puff of arcane magic, and tugs her chestpiece off.

 

  “I expect Antonidas will want to speak with us both,” Jaina says, turning away and tugging her own overshirt off, reaching for the nightshirt her mother brought. “Anveena is safe for now, but there’s no telling how long Arthas will wait until- Tides!”

 

  “What?” Undershirt in one hand, bra in the other, Sylvanas raises her eyebrows.

 

  Jaina swallows hard, eyes fixed on the fuel for many of the last four years’ fantasies. “I- sorry,” she gulps out, and forces her gaze away. “I forget that elves have a different sense of privacy to humans.”

 

  Sylvanas quickly crosses her arms over her chest. “Too much?”

 

  “Not enough,” Jaina murmurs. And immediately remembers how sensitive those pointy ears are, as they flush as red as Jaina’s own cheeks.

 

  “If you prefer, Jaina, I can put the shirt back-”

 

  “No! Oh, Tides…” Jaina lets her own nightdress drop to the floor. “What I mean is, you’re very beautiful. And I am now very distracted.”

 

  There’s a moment of silence, as Sylvanas stares at Jaina and Jaina roundly fails to make eye contact.

 

  “You’ve never been with a woman before,” Sylvanas says. It’s not a question. “You’ve been with men before? You were well of courting age when your mother hired me-”

 

  “No. Arthas and I never got that far. And truthfully… I haven’t been looking since you were employed.” Sylvanas’s eyes narrow. “At the risk of inflating your ego further, yes, I wanted you.”

 

  She runs a hand over her forehead. “I don’t doubt you have much experience.”

 

  Sylvanas barks out a laugh. One finger twitches back towards her shirt. “My mother was even stricter than yours. My actions reflected not only upon her, but upon the Windrunner name and Talanas’s legacy. Any _experiences_ happened at night, always far from Silvermoon, always rushed and never repeated… the shock of two Windrunner sisters breeding with humans and the other not breeding at all might have sent some of Silvermoon’s nobility to their graves.”

 

  Jaina walks slowly round the bed, heat rising in her cheeks. One hand jerks up as though to touch, but otherwise she keeps herself rigid. “I don’t think I like the idea of vapid nobles eyeing you as breeding stock.”

 

  “Their lives are unexciting enough that they have the time to.” Sylvanas’s head turns suddenly away, arms tightening over her chest. “I expect your mother has breached the subject with you in conversation.”

 

  “My mother knows me well enough to know that it would be pointless.” Her hand clenches so hard it hurts. “I hate to bring him up, but… Rommath?”

 

  “As you say in Kul Tiras, all mouth and no trousers.” Sylvanas makes a dismissive gesture with the hand her bra still dangles from. “I thought he would make a pleasant distraction. Jaina- we can talk about this later, but you and I both need rest.”

 

  Her face draws into a frown at the silence that follows. “Jaina? Oh, _belore._ ” She turns her back on Jaina and tugs her shirt back on in a quick, fluid movement, and Jaina’s mouth opens in a half-whined protest. “Mm. I suppose I should be flattered.”

 

  “I’m sorry! Really, I am. It must be the fatigue.” Jaina shakes her head, running one hand over the scrappy remains of her braid. It may as well be a lifetime ago that she was stood in her library, that she had enough time to care about what her hair looked like. “Is it… alright if I get changed in here?”

 

  Sylvanas, sadly still clothed in the shirt, is already halfway to the bed. “Do whatever you feel like. I promise not to look.”

 

  _And I wish you’d break that promise,_ Jaina thinks sourly.

 

-0-0-

 

  _Darnassus, Teldrassil, Kalimdor_

 

  “Please,” Vereesa begs. “I need to get back to Dalaran- my sister was expecting me back two hours ago and I haven’t even got the bow for her- oh, _belore,_ boys, this is useless.” She turns in exasperation from the magi huddled around the main teleporter, one arm around each of her sons. “Fine. We’ll fly to Lor’danel.”

 

  “Gryphon ride!” Galadin cheers. Giramar’s shoulders stiffen.

 

  “Yes, gryphon ride from Rut'theran.” She steers them towards the pink haze only to be thrown backwards. “Seriously? Not even- gryphon down from the tree it is. Come on, boys, quickly.”

 

  “Will Papa be there too? With Aunt Sylvanas?” Galadin’s nearly bouncing up and down. “What about Cousin Zendarin?”

 

  “I don’t know, Galadin!” She grabs the nearest Sentinel. “I need a gryphon to Lor’danel, please, how do I get to Rut’theran or is there another-”

 

  “No. Nobody leaves the tree,” the woman snaps. The eye not covered with a patch narrows. “Nobody.”

 

  “What? I’m Ranger-General of Silvermoon!” Giramar and Galadin clutch their mother tighter. “I need to return to my duties!”

 

  “Not until the High Priestess and the Archdruid return.”

 

  “Why?”

 

  The Sentinel motions to the Temple of the Moon with her sword. “I will find our Commander. She will explain.” Her eye narrows. “But only when we have spoken with you about your sister.”

 

  “Aunt Sylvanas?” Galadin pipes up. “She’s in Dalaran with-” His eyes go wide as Giramar slaps a hand over his twin’s mouth.

 

  The Sentinel’s scarred lips stretch into a mirthless smile. “Follow me, Ranger-General.” She beckons up the path towards the Temple of the Moon. “I will find some entertainment for your sons while we speak.”

 

-0-0-

 

  _A bedroom, Violet Citadel, Dalaran_

 

  _Ouch!_

 

  It is not yet light when she’s jolted awake, jarred once again by Sylvanas twisting and turning in her sleep. Fuming silently, Jaina turns, silky bedclothes rustling, and- careful not to lose the arm curled loosely around her waist- conjures the tiniest hint of magelight above Sylvanas, preparing her rebuke in her head.

 

  The magelight catches softly on Sylvanas’s elegant features, and the admonition crumbles on her tongue.

 

  Her mouth lies a little open, one long fang caught on the edge of her lower lip. One eyebrow is bent aside against the pillow, twitching ever so slightly as her eyes move beneath their lids; the magelight sends shadows of her eyelashes down over her scarred cheeks. Jaina dims it until she can barely make out the outline of Sylvanas’s jaw, allowing herself to just lie and listen to her breathing, watch her wriggling beneath the covers, long legs bumping into Jaina’s.

 

  _I nearly lost you to Arthas. Again._ She sucks in a long, unsteady breath. Leans closer, until she can see the little blue stains on Sylvanas’s lips, feel the puffs of warm air against her cheek.

 

  “I won’t let him take you,” she whispers.

 

  Until a crash outside jolts them both out of bed, Sylvanas grabbing her freshly-carved bow and bolting for the window as Jaina throws a shield around them both-

 

  “Apologies!” Khadgar shouts up to the heads appearing from the Citadel, liberally covered in chunks of fruit. “Knew I should’ve done the transmutation first!”

 

  “I’m not conjuring any more watermelons, Khadgar,” Modera sighs from the floor above.

 

  “I can make it work with coconuts!”

 

  “We have plenty of defensive magicks that are not fruit-based!”

 

  “Anar’alah belore,” Sylvanas groans, dropping her weapon back on the chair. “And humans think _us_ obsessed with the arcane.”

 

  Eyebrows raised, Jaina turns to the display of floating Thalassian plant pots in the corner of the room, surrounded by tiny arcane crystals zooming from plant to plant against the magical backlight. The tray of mana crystals sits directly in front of it, shimmering in the dim morning light. “For the life of me, I can’t think of why.”

 

  “We have addictive personalities,” Sylvanas mutters.

 

  Stepping forwards, Jaina smooths the adorably bed-rumpled hair back from Sylvanas’s face. “Back to bed?”

 

  “Gladly.” Sylvanas is already dragging her back towards it, sliding onto the mattress and drawing the blankets back from Jaina’s side as she pops a mana crystal into her mouth and crunches it. “After you.”

 

  She should be half asleep by rights, but Jaina’s heart is suddenly beating a hundred miles per hour as she smirks up at the beautiful woman she’s spent half the night being elbowed by. “Why thank you,” she purrs, and can’t stifle her snicker at the faint redness that crosses Sylvanas’s cheeks. “How kind.”

 

  “Wench. Go back to sleep.” Sylvanas casts the window a sour look. “Light-damned magi and their light-damned spells.”

 

  “I’d be so offended if I thought you were being serious.” Jaina wriggles back against her and Sylvanas huffs a soft laugh as she collapses down and drapes her arm over Jaina’s hip once more.

 

  They lie in silence. Dalaran beneath them hums with the early morning trade, the change of the Kirin Tor guard. Jaina lets her eyes close and concentrates on the warm puffs of breath against her neck, loathe to turn her head in case she wakes the woman behind her; the skin of her arm is soft and warm, and Jaina idly strokes along it with her thumb. For a time, the only movement in the room is her absent-minded caressing, the only sound their breathing.

 

  And then Sylvanas stands, scratching at her side. “Sorry, Jaina,” she mumbles, fiddling for the drawstring. “It’s so suffocating.”

 

  “That’s why you’ve been driving me crazy all night? I thought you had scorpids in your underwear.”

 

  Sylvanas doesn’t answer, perched on the side of the bed, itching idly at her chest. “I’ll find somewhere else for the rest of the night,” she mumbles, easing to her feet. “I’m sure you don’t want-”

 

  “Sylvanas, just take it off.”

 

  For a moment, there’s silence.

 

  “There’s nothing I can wear instead.” Sylvanas stands, reaching for her chestpiece. “Unless I sleep in this-”

 

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.” Jaina takes a deep breath. “Is it me? You don’t want me in the same bed while you’re shirtless?” The word makes her heart jump a little.

 

  “Belore, no! I mean- it’s far too soon for anything like that- not going to put pressure on you-”

 

  Jaina looks directly into her eyes. “You really think that Jaina Proudmoore, Crown Princess of Kul Tiras, apprentice to Archmage Antonidas and the Kirin Tor, is concerned by the sight of a high elf’s breasts?”

 

  “I think you turn into a drooling murloc.”

 

  She can’t help but laugh. Sylvanas’s humour is too infectious. “Take your shirt off and get back into bed. That’s an order.”

 

  And for the second time in one evening, Sylvanas obeys. Tugs the shirt off, folds her arms over her chest, and drops back onto the mattress, watching Jaina with narrowed eyes.

 

  Jaina’s mouth is suddenly dry.

 

  “Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes sliding down from Sylvanas’s to her chest, held firmly by sun-kissed arms. “Are you going to sleep with your arms folded?”

 

  In response, Sylvanas grabs the blanket and tucks it around herself. “Goodnight, Jaina,” she says, and favours her with her back.

 

  “Um.”

 

  One ear swivels. “What?”

 

  Jaina dares reach out and touch one slender shoulder. “Can I…”

 

  They sit in silence.

 

  “Do what?” Sylvanas cranes round. Naked but for the blanket, hair rumpled and eyes heavy, Jaina nearly just lunges forwards for a kiss at that moment.

 

  “Cuddle up?” Jaina mumbles.

 

  Sylvanas’s face softens. “Yes,” she says, and drops back onto the pillow again.

 

  Jaina wastes no time in pressing herself up against Sylvanas’s back, one hand over her belly, prodding with one foot until Sylvanas snorts with laughter and intertwines their legs. “I suppose it’s very easy to guard you in this position, at least.” She tilts her head, red eyes assessing Jaina in the gloom. “You are… very clingy tonight.”

 

  “I saw a death knight hold his runeblade an inch from your throat only a matter of hours ago. I’m allowed to be clingy.” Even the memory makes her shudder. “He could have killed you. I would have killed him.”

 

  She feels Sylvanas’s stomach muscles pulse with the breath she takes in. “He doesn’t seem to want to harm you. At least.”

 

  “No.” Jaina eases herself up onto one elbow, wiping a tear from one cheek. “But I don’t want to talk about Arthas.”

 

  “What do-” Sylvanas is cut off by Jaina’s lips on her own.

 

  “Fair enough,” Jaina feels mumbled against her mouth as she lets herself fall a little closer, kissing lazily, softly.

 

  Oh, this could be such a bad idea. Such a bad idea. But she runs her hand up Sylvanas’s body until it meets soft flesh, the delicate ridge of her clavicle, and- mustering every inch of bravery she can- tugs just a little at the blanket.

 

  “I need that,” Sylvanas mumbles, craning to re-establish the kiss. “Your brain stops working if I take this off, remember?”

 

  Jaina pulls back a little. Smiles. “A working brain is overrated,” she says, voice low and a little breathless. “Can I?” And her fingers loosen the knot in the soft cloth.

 

  “If you wish.” Sylvanas grins. “I won’t stop you.”

 

  Heart pounding, Jaina tugs at the blanket, and Sylvanas kicks it away and stretches nonchalantly, bringing her arms up to cushion her head.

 

  “Oh, Tides below,” Jaina whispers.

 

  _She is so beautiful._

 

  "Sylvanas?" Smiling, Sylvanas tilts her head. "Can I touch?"

 

  “I’d be offended if you didn’t.” Looking more self-satisfied than Jaina has ever seen her, Sylvanas settles back against the pillow. “Go ahead.”

 

  A little dizzy with lust, Jaina reaches for the closer breast. Her fingers wrap slowly, tentatively, around the nipple, give it a little tug, and Sylvanas’s ear twitches. “You can do as you like, Jaina. I mean it.”

 

  “Absolutely?”

 

  “Yes!”

 

  And Jaina lowers her head and covers the other nipple with her mouth, a chuckle bubbling up in her throat at Sylvanas’s sharp intake of breath.

 

  One of the heroines in one of her favourite books, so many moons ago, had written at length about the worship she received in her bedroom. Katherine had been careful to ensure a smattering of such novels made their way to the library after she came of age, and Jaina had lapped them up eagerly, had dared to dream of such a man making his way into their midst and sweeping her off her feet… until she hired a new bodyguard. At that point he tended to be struck down by a wild, wonderful elven woman, sharp-featured and witty, and Jaina had had to forcefully remind herself that she was meant to be looking for a very male suitor.

 

  It hadn’t worked. Just on occasion, she had been late for training for staring at herself in the mirror and sternly telling herself off for the daydreams she had dared have about the woman now making soft noises of contentment beneath her, nipples hardening with her attentions, arching her back just enough to press herself further into Jaina’s mouth, breath coming in pleased little pants.

 

  “Is this good?” she murmurs.

 

  “You have to ask?” There’s a smile in Sylvanas’s voice. “Yes. Very good.”

 

  Jaina reluctantly abandons Sylvanas’s chest to clamber back up, staring down at her. “We’re not going to get this opportunity again soon, are we? A whole night, just you and me?”

 

  Sylvanas shakes her head. “Such is war,” she says, and swipes another mana crystal off the tray.

 

  “Sylvanas?”

 

  “Mm?”

 

  Jaina takes a deep breath. “I want to do this. Properly. Now.” She gestures between them. “I want you to show me, before we charge back out to battle, how good it can be with a woman.”

 

  Sylvanas’s grin falters. “You don’t want to rush these things,” she starts. “Just because we’ve been through a lot together-”

 

  “I want you. I love having you here with me. You, who has stood by my side and defended me from everything from a poorly-aimed beach ball to a death knight.” She ducks her head and looks up through her lashes, doing her best to plaster coyness onto her face. “And now, I can finally scream your name.”

 

  Sylvanas snorts. “And wake half the Citadel as you do it-” She’s cut off by a sweep of arcane magic around the room. “Yes, that dampening spell is extremely unlikely to be noticed in a building full of Kirin Tor magi. Why don’t you just knock on every door in the hallway and ask them to kindly keep to themselves while we fuck?”

 

  “I don’t care. They’d only be jealous of me.” Jaina lunges at her, revelling in the rumble of appreciation she draws from Sylvanas as she presses their lips together. “Please. I want you. I want _you._ All of you.”

 

  This time it’s Sylvanas who gathers her closer, naked chest brushing against Jaina’s sleep shirt. “Don’t tempt me,” she whispers.

 

  Jaina eases backwards for just long enough to tug her own shirt off and dives back before her self-consciousness can get the better of her; Sylvanas moans, deep in her throat, even as she grabs Jaina’s shoulders and pushes her back. “Are you sure?”

 

  “Yes. Are you?”

 

  A soft, sultry, and _comfortable_ smile. “Yes,” Sylvanas says, and kisses her, deeply enough to set her panting.

 

  Jaina lets her eyes close for long enough to enjoy Sylvanas’s warm body sliding against hers, only to be tipped onto her back and pinned down by two gentle hands. “Are you sure?” Sylvanas murmurs, one finger running down over Jaina’s belly, down to the waistband of her undergarments. “You’re really sure?”

 

  “Yes.” She grins, wide and lustful. “Please. Lady Windrunner.”

 

  Snorting, Sylvanas tugs her underwear down, and Jaina’s cheeks heat up. Tides, she hadn’t expected to feel this exposed, it’s not a feeling she is used to, even as she watches Sylvanas bend closer, keeping eye contact with her all the time-

 

  Sylvanas stops. Her smile is soft, warming Jaina from the inside out. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispers. “And strong.” Her hands find Jaina’s biceps, squeeze the toned muscle within. “You’re comfortable?”

 

  How could she not be? “Mm. Comfortable. What are you-”

 

  _Shit!_ Jaina can’t quite stifle the little moan that slips out of her, wriggling to press herself harder against the gentle fingers exploring her. “Oh, right. That’s what. Don’t stop!”

 

  Shaking her head, Sylvanas eases herself down until she’s propped on one elbow, hand never losing its rhythm, eyes flicking up and down Jaina’s body as though cataloguing each twitch and sigh and writhe. “Don’t stop, you say?”

 

  “No. Please. Keep going. It’s…” Jaina lets her speech peter out, eyes heavily lidded. “You’re very good at this,” she mumbles.

 

  A soft laugh from beside her. “Is this alright?” And Jaina squeaks at the sensation of fingers sliding _inside_ her, curling and rubbing. “Jaina?”

 

  “Yes! Yes, more than alright. Oh, Gods…” She cranes up as best she can, huffing, and forces her eyes wide open enough to focus on Sylvanas. “You’ll have to- teach me-”

 

  “Another night,” Sylvanas murmurs, and Jaina’s reply is cut off by her needy whine.

 

  Jaina lets herself slump back onto the soft bedclothes, shuddering, breath coming in short gasps. The warmth is building rapidly with each skilful rub and each gentle thrust, each brush of Sylvanas’s thumb against her clit, each twist of her nipple- “Sylvanas. Sylvanas!”

 

  “Yes?”

 

  “I’m going to-” But the wave of pleasure cuts her off and her moan is swallowed by Sylvanas’s lips, back arching up off the mattress, feeling herself clench around Sylvanas’s fingers.

 

  For a moment she lies, a little dazed, warm and out of breath.

 

  “Are you alright?” Sylvanas, hovering to one side of her, sounds… tentative. Worried. “Jaina?”

 

  “I’m very alright,” Jaina sighs. “Very, very alright.” She forces herself up onto her elbows and kisses Sylvanas right back, runs one hand over her slender back and feels the light sheen of sweat on her skin. “I see I have yet to discover all of your talents.”

 

  Sylvanas’s eyes crinkle with a grin. “You should hear me on piano.”

 

  “I’d prefer you play me.” Jaina breaks out into a laugh at Sylvanas’s wide eyes. “You don’t have a monopoly on crudeness!”

 

  “No, I don’t.” Sylvanas drops down beside her, tucking Jaina’s hair back behind her ears. “Nor do I play piano. It’s a very old and, if you'd let me finish it, very smutty quel’dorei joke, for the uncultured amongst us- get your elbow out of my ribs! I can have a sense of humour too.”

 

  They fall quiet, holding onto each other. Jaina lets her eyes fall shut as Sylvanas’s hand falls onto her waist, thumb stroking the sensitive skin of her belly. “I hope this doesn’t change us,” she murmurs, already half asleep again.

 

  “What about us?”

 

  “This.” She reaches up to motion between them. “We’re friends. Aren’t we?”

 

  A soft snort. “Given our current position, I would say- yes.”

 

  “Be serious for once. Everything is changing around us… we knew Arthas was out there, but we didn’t know this would happen. I knew one day someone would tell me who you were, and I was prepared to find out you had done something awful. Hurt a lot of people, maybe.” The hand on her waist tenses. “You stood by me. You’ve always stood by me. Tides, yesterday proved that. I’m so relieved that you’re not a monster-”

 

  “Arthas sought to make me a monster,” Sylvanas says, so quietly Jaina holds her breath to hear her. “Maybe in another life, I would have been so embittered by how Silvermoon and my own people- oh, and my own sister- turned on me, I would have become nothing more than my own hatred.” She sighs, breath tickling Jaina’s neck. “You refused to let me do that.”

 

  Jaina shifts, presses their bodies tighter together. “You looked sad.”

 

  “What?”

 

  “When I first met you. You were always so defensive. Somewhere along the line, I started to see you soften, and not just down here.” She pokes Sylvanas’s belly. “We were walking back to Proudmoore Keep in the snow. You were grouching about the cold. Mother had just sent the patrol out in formation- we saw them approaching on the path and then the guardsman at the front slipped on a patch of ice-”

 

  Sylvanas chuckles, brings a hand up to stifle the yawn threatening to break out. “Like dominoes. I learned some very inventive curses.”

 

   “And I learned what you look like when you laugh.” Jaina cranes forwards and presses a kiss to the unmarred skin of Sylvanas’s cheek. “It really, really didn’t help with the crush. At all.”

 

  “You were sweet on me _then?_ ” Her voice is heavy with fatigue, even with the grin on her face. “That was three years ago.”

 

  Jaina inches her calf between Sylvanas’s. “Yes.”

 

  The sun is clambering over the spires of Dalaran, dusting them in a soft lilac glow. Jaina lets the conversation lull, content to watch Sylvanas dozing, let her eyes stray down the long, lithe body before her. Her own eyes will soon be too heavy to resist, body aching pleasantly. They still have time.

 

  _Whether we’re in the lull before the storm,_ Jaina muses as her eyes slip shut, _or the eye of it._

-0-0-

 

  _Icecrown Citadel, Icecrown, Northrend_

 

  “Where is she?”

 

  Zendarin sighs, deeply. His gaze does not waver from the spell crackling in and out of being against the wall. “Patience, Master.”

 

  “I do not lower myself to the level of _patience,_ mage.” Arthas’s voice is as menacing as a croak can be. “Where. Is. Windrunner?”

 

  “I am trying to find out for you, Master- but you are in no condition to-”

 

  He’s cut off by the mail-gloved hand that slams into his throat. “Where is she,” Arthas growls, his full body weight pinning Zendarin to the wall. “Where?”

 

  It’s a good thing Zendarin no longer needs to breathe. “One moment, Master! Please!” At least his hand has remained steady, channelling arcane through two glowing fingers. “And understand I can only do this-”

 

  “A few times, yes, yes, I know.” They both lurch back as the arcane begins to solidify, swirling in grey chunks across the wall. “Well?”

 

  They wait.

 

  “Warding spells.” Zendarin clicks his floppy tongue. “I’ll just-”

 

  They both see a flash of dense greenery and the roof of a temple before the vision sputters to ashes on the floor.

 

  “Darnassus! She’s in Darnassus!” Arthas is already limping for the door. “Summon my forces. We attack as soon as we can. Don’t give them time to escape.”

 

  “Yes, Master!” Ah, the bloodlust could almost make him feel alive again, he smiles as he shakes out the tension in his shoulders and strides out after the death knight. Proudmoore, he could not care less about. But having Sylvanas within his grasp? Oh, it is intoxicating in a way the living could not hope to understand.

_I'll see you there, cousin dear.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG. In between university and being sick (three times!) and new dog and raiding and house renovations and writer's block and
> 
> so anyway they finally got to get together and I hope the smut was alright! i've not written so much in the way of smut so any constructive criticism is super appreciated :D and maybe more plot soon. who knows.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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